Pride and Pestilence
by Celtic Amazon
Summary: The Winchesters and Castiel go hunting for the latest horseman to be summoned: Pestilence. But there are things the angel isn't telling them, and his pride may prove to be his downfall.
1. Role Reversal

_I own nothing. The CW, Kripke, etc. have all the rights. Trust me: no money is coming my way._

It burns. Every inch of this flesh and bone prison is on fire, incinerating him from the inside out. His limbs feel like they're lying in a forge, great heavy pieces of molten metal, immobile, slowly warping with the heat. The forge's hammer is currently located somewhere in his skull, and it beats out a steady tattoo of pain. Thin rasping voices, chase themselves in and out of the pounding rhythm. He can hear cursing and screaming...tortured voices, hoarse with agony. And suddenly, the flames lick upward in front of his eyes...he can see them, blurred but horribly familiar. This is hellfire, greedily licking upwards from the pit, scouring the souls who can do nothing but scream their unending agony, a profane mockery of the angelic choirs above. He's back in Hell, and this time, he knows, there's no salvation.

Coolness. A cool, soothing weight settles on his brow, a benediction, in the midst of the punishing heat. The screams grow in intensity, as though protesting this favouritism, but his unseen saviour continues his ministrations.

He needs to be strong. He can't give in to the gnawing agony; the raging heat, that threatens to burn away what little light he can still feel in his soul. But he's tired. He's been fighting for too long, alone, spiralling down and down through this abyss...

He hears his name. It's a whisper amid the screams of the damned. It tugs at him, urges him toward something. Through the chaos and torment, he strains to hear it. It brushes, insistently against his mind, and somehow he knows it's connected with the cool touch of this one who has come to save him from this suffering. He tries to focus on it, block everything else out, except for the sound of his name...

A second voice, venomously seductive with the offer of a different kind of relief, shatters his concentration.

_I don't understand why you're fighting me..._

_No! _He tries to block out this new voice, beckoning him back down into the dark. _No...._

_Why not serve your own best interests..._

_No, no, no,no..._

"Cas!"

The light is bright, too painful as his eyes fly open and the images of the far reaches of hell dissipate and shrink back into the floral wallpaper. He's choking, like a drowning man on his own mantra of denial, still spilling out from his chapped lips.

"...no,no..."

"Cas?"

He shudders to a halt, and lays there, limbs shaking, disoriented.

"Easy, hey..." Firm, cool hands come to rest on either side of his face, until he's able to meet the pair of green eyes that stare down at him full of worry.

"...Dean..."

His voice sounds scoured dry.

"You were dreaming," the man tells him, half reassurance, half wonder. "I mean...It was a dream right? Not some freaky angel psychic thing?"

The words blend a little, blurring their various meanings together in his overwrought brain.

"Cas?" Dean taps his cheek lightly, "You with me?"

He manages to nod slowly, feels Dean's fingers slide to his neck to feel his pulse. It feels like his heart is trying to pound a hole in his chest. Dean must feel it too, because he frowns and takes the cold compress from his feverish forehead and runs it down his neck, over the tight, aching muscles there. He rings it out over the ice bucket, by his knee and soaks it again.

'Dude," Dean shakes his head, and precisely re-folds it, "You were seriously freakin' out for a while there."

The edges of his vision keep on swarming with little white dots, in a distinctly distracting fashion, and his limbs are shaking like they have a mind of their own. He once would have found it fascinating, this involuntary movement, this disconnect between the will, the brain, and the body. But at this moment, more important than the contemplation of the wonder and complexity of the human body, is his need to stop these little shivers and spasms from sending more torment through his aching joints.

"Easy, man..."

The cold compress returns, blessedly, and Dean rests a firm hand on his shoulder. His eyelids feel heavy, as unconsciousness beckons. But that way lies dreams... He forces his leaden eyes open, and inhales sharply. Standing just over Dean's shoulder, is Raphael. The archangel shakes his head disapprovingly at Castiel's state.

Dean, oblivious to the danger, but having felt him tense, gently massages the rigid muscle under his palm.

"It's Ok, Cas."

His lips move soundlessly, and he chokes on a gasp, as Zacariah joins Raphael, a smug smile of satisfaction, slipping over his features.

Dean's frown deepens, "Cas?"

He feels Dean's other hand come to rest on his brow comfortingly, but the human remains oblivious to the two angels standing with patient malice just behind him. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing, praying that maybe this is somehow another dream.

"Shit!"

He hears the human curse and he opens his eyes quickly, to find Dean on his feet, scrabbling for Ruby's knife. Zacariah and Raphael have vanished.

Pestilence stands in the doorway. The horseman turns, looks down at him, and her lips curve into a smile.

_Had to get that out of my system while I wait for the return of the new episodes. "Hi my name is Celtic Amazon, and I'm addicted to Supernatural." Admittiing it is the first step._

_This is my first fic in the fandom, so it may or may not continue. My muse she is fickle! Almost as fickle as real life demands which apparently are more important than writing fanfic. Huh...Who knew? But well if you're at this note, then you read it! So thanks! :D_


	2. Ring Around The Rosy

_One week earlier..._

Life lines, love lines. Humanity has been reading signs in the lines of their palms just as long as they've been looking for signs in the stars, or tea leaves, or the flight of birds. The lines on this particular palm, are bisected by a deep red gash, that says far more than any of the other pale lines in the skin. It says that this hand is wounded. This body is wounded. And it seems that no matter how long he stands here staring at it, this omen isn't going away.

Castiel frowns and tucks it into the pocket of his trench coat. The coat is his. The hand is his. And now the wounds are his too. Temporary though the cuts and bruises will be, they're staying longer. He can't simply wipe them from this body's memory at will. He no longer hears the ethereal assurance of the other angels, hears no other voice inside his head than his own, and the connection to the well of power that The Host represents is degrading faster than he can track.

The broken bottle that caused the cut on his hand lies smashed on the packed dirt floor, and the body of the man he's just killed lies beside it. He kneels wearily beside both, feeling a faint groan of protest in his ribs. Hugo Cortez. The man had two small children and a wife, and the particular misfortune last week of becoming possessed. And now without his powers, Castiel has been forced to extinguish the human life in order to exorcise the demon that attacked him. Hugo Cortez is a child of the Almighty, a great work of art and beauty. And now he is dead. He murmurs a brief prayer for the soul of this, his Father's child, and gently closes the man's eyes.

Outside, the sun is bearing down mercilessly on San Jose. He notes that he doesn't feel the heat. He feels the slight sting and the pull of the skin around the cut on his palm, and the more shallow one on his chin, and he feels the ache in his ribs and his shoulder where he was slammed into a wall, but the heat barely registers. There's no logic to which of his powers remain intact, and no warning when another one begins to fade.

He crosses the street, and pauses in the shade of an awning outside. The streets are filled with their usual traffic and human lives weave in and out of each other, only a few locals noticing the overdressed man standing under the awning. So far, no one has found the body in the basement under the bar, across the street. Castiel reaches into an inner pocket of his coat and pulls out Dean's amulet. It's cool and lifeless between his fingers. The heat that radiated from it earlier, has dissipated, and Castiel feels an almost physical sinking at the realization that he has reached yet another dead end in the search for his father. He returns the amulet to his pocket.

He leaves the shade and begins down the street again, directionless anew, but fearful of what it might mean to stop moving. As he passes by a schoolyard full of children, a little boy stops playing with his marbles and approaches the wire fence. He stops, and hooks his fingers through the spaces in the mesh, staring up at the angel, with large dark eyes. Castiel pauses and regards the boy in turn. Children, he's discovered often stop to watch him in fascination. The small boy, says nothing, simply stares up at him, calmly. There is a warmth in the child's eyes, and Castiel stoops down to be on eyelevel with the small boy, allowing this little one of his Father's making to take him in. After the abyss that swirled in Hugo Cortez's eyes, the large pools of childish innocence before him, make his throat tighten in a strange way, he doesn't fully understand.

Suddenly, he is startled by a loud, electronic cacophony. It takes him a moment to realize that it's the phone in his pocket. The device wails for his attention, with a tinny rendition of _Eye of the Tiger_, and he wryly regrets letting Dean "fix" it for him. He retrieves the phone and flips it open.

"Hello, Dean."

"Cas, Bobby just scored a major find. You need to get your feathers over here."

Castiel looks up to find the little boy is gone.

"Cas?"

"Yes."

"Where are you anyway?"

There is no sign of the boy as Castiel's eyes scan the children in the small yard.

"Costa Rica," he mutters into the phone.

"Huh."

Dean sounds mildly impressed.

'So...uh...You comin'?"

Castiel frowns and gets to his feet, oddly rattled by the sudden disappearance of the child.

'Yes."

He hangs up. It'll take mere seconds to get to Dean's location. He takes one last, reluctant look back at the schoolyard, and feels an odd emptiness.

He gathers himself, and faster than human comprehension, he's moving through walls and air, and particles and atoms, like water passing through a sieve. Somewhere in that glide through matter and energy, though, he feels a deep renting sensation. Pain lances through what should be his near incorporeal form, and without warning, he's broken out of mid flight, and is tumbling through rough undergrowth, corporeal and hurtling out of control. He thuds to a sprawled stop at the base of a large oak tree, stunned.

Overhead, a leafy canopy sways lightly, and the song of birds, startled into silence by his sudden appearance, resumes. This is not Bobby Singer's living room.

Slowly, he rolls to his feet, untangling his coat from around his legs, wincing. His eyes scan the dense foliage around him, but he's alone. There's very little he can think of, that could have attacked him mid-flight. Another angel is the only rational possibility, but no self-righteous family member makes an appearance. Experimentally, Castiel turns inward and flexes ever so slightly, stretching, testing his wings beneath the confines of his vessel. There is a burning, pull; not a good sign. He surveys the surrounding woods, frowning. The vegetation suggests the eastern United States. He has come close to his destination...but this is not it. Perhaps he was distracted on the take-off...perhaps...perhaps he was attacked and he dropped down into this forest on instinct, before it truly registered in his consciousness.

But for the moment he is alone. For the moment he detects no pursuer.

He straightens his dishevelled coat and jacket, and purposefully plants his feet. He has only to concentrate, to know where he is needed and go. Doubt is efficiently stifled, at least for the moment. To truly think about the implications of his interrupted flight, he will need to pause, to stop moving. But he is a fugitive now, and if there is one thing he is certain of in this new definition of himself, it's the knowledge that: to stop moving is to die.

He focuses, gathers himself, and dissolves into the wind. Seconds later, he touches down in Bobby Singer's living room. His feet are steadily planted beneath him, and he finally releases the breath he's been holding. The room is in a predictable state of disarray, with Sam and Bobby near buried under a large stack of yellowed manuscripts.

"Hey what took you so long?" Dean asks, looking up from his brother's laptop.

"I..." Castiel frowns, "I apologize."

The man's expression is one of confusion, followed by exasperation, "Sarcasm, Cas."

The angel's frown deepens.

"Hey, Castiel. _Thanks for coming_."

Sam shoots a pointed look at his brother who shrugs and closes the laptop.

Beside Sam, Bobby closes the volume in front of him and sizes up the angel, "What d'you know about the Fourth Horseman?"

"Pestilence," Castiel eyes the books piled around the three humans, "The Horseman rides a white steed. He is Nosos, Morbus, disease, The Plague."

This is an oversimplified, condensed version of his knowledge. Castiel himself is familiar with the contents of Revelations, The Edda, The Sutta Pitaka, The Avesta, but these are all human interpretations of a supernatural concepts that will come to pass in their own unpredictable way.

Sam nods, "We may have found where the horseman's planning to make his grand entrance."

This peaks his interest. With two horseman dispatched and Death still at large, it would be advantageous to tip the scales in their favour, stopping this latest horseman before he comes into his power fully.

"How reliable is your source?"

Dean cuts in before Sam can answer, "Oh she's great," he mutters, "You know, we're only trusting a freakin' witch."

"A witch?"

Bobby shoots a glare at Dean, "Rufus has been using information from her for years. She's a psychic," he adds for Castiel's benefit.

The angel takes in Dean's sour expression. Obviously, the hunter is still thinking about the last witch he dealt with and the poker game.

"You're certain she's an ally?" the angel asks.

Bobby sighs, "About as sure as we can be about anyone present company excluded."

"This is a chance to stop this thing before it even gets started!" Sam urges, looking between Dean and Castiel with a near desperate fervour that Castiel isn't sure whether to feel encouraged or slightly wary about. "We can actually get there on time. Maybe actually stop people from dying."

Dean shakes his head in resignation, "Fine. But I so much as start to feel the arthritis coming back..."

Bobby ignores the eldest Winchester, "The coven is-"

"Coven?" Castiel interrupts.

"Yeah, it's a coven," Bobby confirms.

"Like I said," Dean grumbles, "Fan-freakin'-tastic."

"You ladies just about done getting your panties in a twist?" Bobby growls.

Ever the diplomat, Sam gives Dean an exasperated look and turns back to Bobby, "Sorry, Bobby. Like we've already said; this is our best option."

This last part is directed at both Dean and Castiel.

Admittedly, Castiel is feeling somewhat reluctant to trust anyone at this point. It isn't the idea of witchcraft that bothers him, (among other things, the Bible has a very particular view on witchcraft that he finds limited and flawed) but rather the idea of placing trust in anyone outside of the only three people he knows for sure on any given day don't want him dead, is a big leap of faith. These days, faith is something he has a limited amount of.

"Then let's get down to brass tacks," Bobby pulls a crumbling manuscript out from under the pile in front of him.

"Cas?"

Castiel starts at the sound of Dean's voice, lost in his own thoughts.

"You okay?"

He follows the line of Dean's sight to his abdomen where he hasn't noticed that he's curled an arm protectively around his tender ribs.

"Yes," he immediately lets his arm drop, "I was thinking."

Dean frowns.

"I was thinking," Castiel ploughs ahead, eager to change the subject, "That even if we know Pestilence's location, the pursuit of the horseman will be extremely dangerous for you and Sam, who are susceptible to illness and disease."

At this, Sam grins, looking proud of himself, "Bobby and I've been doing some digging, and we think we may have found a way around that."

Bobby opens the ancient looking volume in front of him and points to a page written in Sumerian, "There's some references to the horsemen's other rings in here...some possibilities of turning them to work for us."

"We think, with the right ritual, we can get them to cancel out Pestilence's effects for whoever's wearing them."

He looks at Castiel hopefully, for confirmation and the angel tilts his head slowly, considering. He's never heard of this before...but then again, he isn't omniscient, doesn't know absolutely all of the lore out there. He was a soldier, not a scholar or a record keeper.

"What d'you think Cas?" Dean watches the angel carefully.

"Perhaps."

He has to admit, it's the best sounding lead they've had in a while.

Bobby hands the book to Sam and scrawls something on a piece of paper, and hands it to him as well. "The coven's in a town called White Deer, just on the other side of the Canadian border. If Rufus is right, they'll have everything you need for the ritual. You just need to bring the rings."

"Great." Dean deadpans, rising and downing the rest of his coffee, "I feel like Frodo heading off to Mount Doom. "

Sam smirks, "And you say _I'm_ a geek."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Castiel follows the Winchesters out onto the porch.

Dean turns back to him, "You riding with us or getting more frequent flyer miles?"

Castiel is silent, turning his focus inward for a moment.

Dean rolls his eyes misinterpreting this as a sigh of Castiel having not understood, "Are you coming in the car?"

Under his vessel's form, Castiel feels his wing protest loudly, even at his tentative stretching. He has to grit his teeth a little before answering.

"I'll go with you and Sam."


	3. RALLY THE TROOPS

_Once again, still making no money from this._

_This chapter is short, and also from Sam's perspective. Don't know yet how I feel about that...but my muse demanded I try something a little different, and a little outside my comfort zone._

**RALLY THE TROOPS**

_This is going to work._

Sam repeats the mantra again, silently, as he watches fence posts whip by alongside the fields out the window of the Impala. _It has to work_. Team Free Will, as Dean's dubbed them, needs to put some points on the board.

Dean clears his throat from the driver's seat loud enough to be heard over the music, and Sam glances over at his brother who is trying to glare a hole in the blacktop.

Sam shrugs, goes back to staring at the monotonous repetition of field, barn, house, field, barn, house...

"Dude!"

Sam glances back at his brother to find himself now the subject of the asphalt-melting glare.

"Seriously, cut it out. It's friggin' annoying."

He follows the death glare to his left knee which he's bouncing in a spastic, fidgety rhythm. The motion stops. Dean mutters under his breath, and goes back to the road. Ah the lingering symptoms of withdrawal: Fun for the whole family.

It's been almost a month that he's clean, and apart from the occasional compulsion to fidget when under stress, say the stress of going to meet a coven of witches to obtain the only fighting chance against an Apocalyptic Horseman, he feels almost normal again. Well, as normal as someone who is responsible for the End of Times and the release of Satan himself, can feel. Cheerful - Maybe he should distract himself. When his mind is occupied, doing research, translating something from Latin, he doesn't feel like his nerves are going to wind tight enough to catapult out of his body- When he was a kid there were games he used to play in the car when his father was driving, games inside his own head that helped alleviate the boredom while Dean slept and they drove to Small Town #376. Trying to make words out of license plates was a good one...He's begun to drum his fingers on his leg, the compulsion to fidget not totally suppressed. Luckily, the gesture is small enough to go unnoticed- License plates...right...he glances in the rear view mirror, to see if there are any particularly distracting ones...His eyes catch Castiel's in the mirror. The angel is watching him from the backseat in that unblinking way that gradually, and that is _very_ gradually, has gone from creepy to familiar since the first ill-advised attempt to shake the celestial's hand. Right now though, being the object of intense scrutiny isn't helping matters. He returns to the fields out the window. Just 200 miles to the border.

At a truck stop just before the Canadian border, Dean pulls over and mumbles something about going to the john, before stalking off across the parking lot. It's difficult to say whether he's irritable about the witches or the lingering withdrawal symptoms. Neither bodes for a good day, and Sam feels his own annoyance building. Yes, they have the entirety of heaven and hell on their asses, and a long, dangerous fight ahead, but that's actually too much to cram into one thought process. There are smaller, more hopeful things to focus on...like yes, they're about to drive right into a nest of questionably allied witches, but there's a chance they'll get exactly what they need to defeat Pestilence. And yes, he might be showing the occasional symptom, but the vast majority of his body is back under his own control again, not to mention his mind. That's no small thing.

In the back, Cas is quiet; has been the whole drive. Sam cranes his neck over his shoulder to look at the angel, and finds him with his eyes tightly shut, lips thinned, his brow furrowed as if in deep concentration. Meditating? Praying maybe?

"Uh Castiel?"

There's no response.

"Um...I don't want to disturb you if you're um..."

The angel swallows thickly and opens his eyes.

"You're not disturbing me."

His voice is pitched lower than normal, the words slow and careful, the way you'd speak around someone who has a migraine. He recognizes the tone from when Cas popped in at some point during the early stages of his recovery, when his head felt like it was splitting in two. Clearly, Dean's not the only one who missed the memo. Yeah he's got some lingering signs of what he's gone through in the last three weeks, but he's good. He's actually good; and ready to get back in this fight.

"We're almost at the border," Sam informs him, his voice a little louder, a little more energetic than necessary."

_See? I'm fine._

"Yes," Castiel acknowledges, quietly.

"And I'm thinking, since you don't have a passport-"

Cas cuts him off, seemingly eager to have this conversation over with, "I'll meet you and Dean on the other side of the border."

Dean returns seconds later, a Styrofoam container of pie in one hand. If there's pie anywhere within a five mile radius, Dean will find it.

He slides back into the driver's seat and balances the container on his knee, before reaching across to the glove box and snagging the bottle of Aspirin. He swallows a couple dry and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?"

"What're you now, the school nurse?"

"Whatever, man," Sam surrenders Dean to his bad mood, and spares a glance backward to see if Castiel has fluttered off yet.

The angel has one hand raised, to gently massage between his eyes.

"Cas?"

The angel drops his hand and vanishes.

The Impala's engine rumbles to life, and Dean looks from the now empty backseat to his brother, 'Well I guess that answers my question about mounties vs angels."


	4. RITUAL

_Got impatient waiting for tonight's episode, so I went on a fanfic writing binge. This was the result. It's from Dean's POV. The next chapter should switch back to Cas' POV. Unless my muse goes truly nuts...because then, who knows? The next chapter could be from the Impala's POV! (God forbid.)_

_And wait let me check....nope! still not making any money from this!_

RITUAL

_This is not going to work._

Dean can pretty much picture either the epic bitchface or the puppy eyes Sam would give him if he could hear that thought. His brother looks wound tighter than a shitzu, and that feverish hopeful gleam in his eyes is only slightly better than the haunted look detox put on his face.

They, the Winchesters, are destiny's bitch; and in Dean's mind so much the better when they accept the fact that they're screwed. Watching Sam chug demon blood, again, was just a friendly reminder of that fact. _Azazel: the gift that keeps on giving_. He'd seriously love to waste that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Again.

He glances in the rear view mirror. The border guards are just as uninterested in them now as when they presented their fake IDs. Beside him, Sam is still fidgeting like a six year old boy at a ballet recital, but at least Dean can feel his headache fading a little as the Aspirin kicks in.

Optimism would be great right about now. He's all for it. But show him something worth being optimistic about. Show him a weapon that could actually kill Lucifer. Or how about an angel or two that doesn't want them dead or essentially lobotomized so they can use him as an angel condom.

_Speaking of which..._

He slows down and pulls over, now well out of sight of the border patrol. A familiar figure appears from a ditch beside the road, trench coat slung over one arm. Cas slides into the back wordlessly and tips his head back to rest against the back of the seat, his coat folded across his knees, eyes closed. Well that's different... It's only on rare occasions, he's reminded that the tan coat isn't fused to the angel's human body. And since when does Cas do anything besides sit with the kind of posture Miss Manners would kill for, and give him the creepy, blue steel stare down? And, he didn't ask before about the cut on Cas' chin. He's not the guy's babysitter...but it's ne more little thing that just seems...off, about the angel today.

"I'm fine, Dean," Castiel interjects without opening his eyes.

Jeezus. He hates when Cas does that.

Sam glances between them, eyebrows raised, then goes back to staring out the window and working on his spastic twitching skills. Right, Ok. Go Team Free Will.

An hour later, they pass the ubiquitous WELCOME TO WHITEDEER sign, and Dean gropes along the dash until he finds the paper with the address of the coven written on it. White Deer's the kind of small town hemmed in by farm land and woods, that makes its main revenue from visiting hunters, fisherman, and cottage go-ers. The main street is a slow crawl of a few pickup trucks and kids on bikes, and Dean wonders behind which of these little antique shops and stores selling crafts and homemade jam they're going to find a group of women dabbling in the dark arts.

""Take a right here," Sam pipes up from beside him.

The street is a little turn off from Mainstreet called Fielding. There's a run-down looking diner and a drug store, before a tidy row of houses with white siding begins.

"That's it," Sam points to a little one story house with blue shingles.

The guy looks way too excited considering what they're about to walk into.

"Great," Dean offers unenthused.

Beside the small, gravel laneway, a little girl is swinging from a huge maple tree. She slows down and watches them get out of the car.

"Hi there," Sam says in his best we're-perfectly-harmless voice.

She hops off the swing and approaches him, smiling guilelessly. She must be about ten or eleven, "Hi!"

He leaves Sam to make the small talk. He himself isn't great with kids. In the backseat Cas stirs and blinks owlishly before carefully sliding out, leaving his coat folded on the back seat.

Dean frowns, "Were you...asleep?"

"No," Cas says flatly.

"Umm...okay..." he's still eyeing the discarded trench coat.

"We should go inside."

Cas shoulders past him and walks toward Sam and the little girl. The subject it would seem, is closed.

Still weirded out on a deep level, Dean follows suit and the little girl leads them up to a cheery blueberry coloured door. She opens it and marches them inside babbling on about her tree fort and some game or other her cousins taught her...

She plants her bare feet "..And then when you have enough sticks- oh wait a second...MOM!" She hollers into the small interior of the house.

From the kitchen emerges a tall woman in her forties, red hair wrapped up in a kerchief, barefoot like her daughter under her summer dress.

"You must be the Winchesters," she smiles at Sam and Dean, then looks curiously at Castiel, "And-"

"He's the angel," comes a voice from down the narrow hallway. From a room off to the side, and old woman shuffles into view.

"Really?..." The little girl looks at Cas like he's just sprouted a thousand pink Barbies.

The red-haired woman turns and motions to the little girl, "Amira, go help Grandma."

The old woman, who is apparently blind waves them off with a bony, wrinkled hand, "Leave the kid be, Alexandra. I know my way around your house by now."

Freed of her task, Amira sidles up to Cas and sits on the small wooden bench in the hallway nearest to him, so she can watch him wide-eyed like a giant present on Christmas morning, while her bare brown legs swing giddily.

"This is my mother," Alexandra explains politely, she smiles affectionately at her mother's grumbling as she goes to her and gives the old woman her arm, "She's the one gifted with The Sight."

"I'm your Horseman GPS."

She smiles a gap toothed grin at her own joke.

"So.." Dean looks around sceptically taking in the family photos and crayon drawings with AMIRA scrawled proudly across them, that are tacked sporadically to the walls, "This is the coven...?"

"No!" Amira giggles.

"Amira," her mother chides gently, "No," she explains, "We're members of the coven but our other ladies are either at work or at home with their kids. We won't need them all for the ritual. My mother already had them help her with the divination work this morning."

"Right," Dean scans the vases on the shelf a little closer for any sign of pickled body parts.

"Good, we have the rings from War and Famine with us-"

"Sam!" Dean warns, "You want to maybe check out the situation a little before you go offering people we just met insanely powerful magic?..." He eyes the women warily.

Alexandra smiles, "Let's go sit in the kitchen. I've just finished baking a cherry pie, maybe we can sit and get to trust each other a bit."

_Pie? Damn it._

"Don't worry," the old woman adds slyly, "We're not the poker playing type."

Two pieces of the best cherry pie he's ever eaten later, and Dean finds they've more or less reached an understanding.

"...The chalice is absolutely necessary for the ritual with the rings, but no one had seen it for over a thousand years, and then this little girl in a village in South Korea just so happened to dig it up on her family's farm five weeks ago," Alexandra shakes her head, and reaches out to steady her daughter's hand while Amira pours more lemonade into Cas' glass.

There probably isn't much point in telling the little girl that the angel doesn't actually get thirsty. Obviously, catching onto the social custom here, Cas takes a sip of the drink.

"And you don't think that's kind of a big coincidence?" Dean asks.

Alexandra turns her attention to him and raises her eyebrows, "Well I don't know if I'd use the word coincidence..."

"We're not big believers in coincidence, cutie," the old woman smirks.

Sam, who is toying with the edge of his napkin, abandons his fidgeting momentarily to look up at the women, "You mean...you think something...or someone...helped us find this chalice?"

Even Cas looks up at this.

"Whoa there, honey," the old woman puts up her hands, "I believe in the love of The Goddess for her creations here on earth, but direct intervention moves in higher circles than I've got a window to. In some things, I just have my faith."

It's hard to say at that point, whether Sam or Cas is doing a better kicked puppy impression.

After clearing away the dishes with Amira's help, Alexandra leads them down a cramped back stair case, and Dean vaguely hears her telling Sam about her booming herbal remedies business. He watches Amira draw a pentagram and several intricate symbols for the ritual as easily as most ten year olds set up their favourite board game. The root cellar is windowless, with a dirt floor and no electric light. The candles and the faint sunlight filtering in from the top of the stairs are all that break up the darkness. The close oppressive darkness and the smell of packed dirt aren't something Dean's enjoying.

_Endless heavy grave dirt pouring in on him, choking him as he scrabbles with already bloodied hands and torn fingernails, for light, for air, for life- _

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Cas is looking at him, brow furrowed somewhere between questioning and sympathy. The angel's eyes, he notices, look deeply shadowed in the flickering light.

"... 'M fine," Dean mumbles and moves away.

Although, he is glad to have been pulled out of that particular stroll down memory lane.

"Should we be doing something?" Sam offers Alexandra.

She makes a quick correction to one of Amira's symbols, "No, just stand by ready with the rings. We'll do the rest."

She steps into the ritual space and her mother and daughter follow. All three join hands and begin to intone.

"It's Sumerian," Sam the Wonder Geek whispers.

Dean nods vaguely. Amira's voice is a little higher than her mother and grandmother's, but she never stumbles once over the complex ancient language. The kid is definitely going to grow up with a complex. If he and Sam are any indication...He was probably about her age when Dad started taking him on salt and burns...Then again, Dean thinks wryly, if this whole thing doesn't work out, there's a very good chance she won't get to grow up at all. No one will.

Cas has sat down on a wicker chair nearby and is watching the three witches intently. After a few moments of chanting, a few more candles lit, and the mixing of something with a smell Dean's glad he can't identify, Alexandra turns to them.

"Alright, boys, bring the rings here and drop them in the chalice."

Dean exchanges a look with Sam, then they both warily approach the pentagram and each produce a ring. One after the other, the rings disappear into a viscous dark substance.

"Alright," the old woman whispers, "Now you drink it."

"What?!" Dean balks, this is _so_ not what he signed up for.

"Grandma!" Amira giggles.

The three witches are barely managing to cover up grins.

"She's pulling your leg, sweetie," Alexandra chuckles, "It's alright, you and Sam just take the rings out, and put them on. The ritual's just about done."

_Witches_. Dean grouses silently.

He slides War's ring on his finger and feels...nothing. He was expecting some kind of a jolt...something...a vague tingling? But he feels only the cool band, wet and a little slimy from the concoction in the chalice. Sam puts on Famine's ring, and looks similarly surprised when what is probably an identical nothing, happens.

The ritual is closed and Alexandra kneels and blows out the candles, "My mother has the location of the fourth horseman for you. She divined it this morning. Amira, go grab Grandma's sandalwood box from the dresser in her room. I'll stay and clean all this up. I'm sure the three of you are itching to be on your way."

This last part is addressed to him and Sam. For his part, Cas seems lost in thought over on the wicker chair.

"Hey wings," Dean calls, "You comin'?"

The angel looks up suddenly, "Yes," he mutters getting to his feet.

Amira and her grandmother lead the way up the narrow stairs and once they're outside, the little girl runs off to grab her grandmother's things. She returns with a map, with a few burn marks around the edges, but very clear circled coordinates.

"He seems to move around from time to time, "the old woman warns, "But as far as I've seen it, this is the epicentre. This should be where you find the horseman."

"Thank you," Sam takes the map and carefully folds it, "Thank you for everything."

The old woman grins her gap-toothed grin, "Well, it certainly isn't every day an old broad like me gets to spend the afternoon with such a couple of virile young things like yourself," she says winking lewdly.

They make their way toward the Impala, and Dean can't help smirking, "The old ladies Sammy, you always work your magic on them huh?"

His brother rolls his eyes, the morning's bad moods assuaged for the moment by pie, a little teasing, and maybe, _maybe_ even a little hope."

Dean fishes out his keys and spots Amira running down the laneway towards them. She rounds to the back of the car and Cas opens his door. She presses something into the angel's hand and motions for him to lean down so she can whisper something in his ear. Dean and Sam both watch with a certain amount of curiosity, as Cas' eyes go wide and he draws back in surprise from the little girl.

"Uh...Thank you..." he whispers sounding stunned.

The little girl beams and skips back to her grandmother.


	5. RATE OF ATTRITION

_And we're back! Both this new chapter, and season 5 episodes. Gotta love it!_

_If there was an opposite to raking in large piles of cash, or any cash at all for that matter...it would be me._

RATE OF ATTRITION

Children are sponges. Their capacity to learn languages is incredible. But very few ten year old girls speak Enochian. The tang of longing still hangs in the air where she whispered to him in his own language, in the celestial language of his brethren that makes his soul ache. Her words were very simple: _Fear Not_. He does not know why she spoke them, or where she could have learned them...but then...she spoke Sumerian as well he rationalizes.

The Impala coasts off the main highway, and stops under a small gathering of trees overlooking a lake.

Castiel glances down, for the first time at what she placed in his hand: a small cloth pouch, with a little tag attached, that describes the contents. It's a tea, something to relieve headaches.

_How did she..._

"Earth to Cas!" Dean cuts into his thoughts impatiently, "You listening to me?"

"No," Castiel replies, with a sharpness he can now, after having spent so much time on earth, and especially in the presence of his charge, identify as irritation. The pounding in his temples is near deafening.

"I asked," Dean continues, ignoring him "if you were planning on sticking with Sam n' me, or whether you wanted to go ahead and do recon."

Castiel covertly stows the small pouch in his suit jacket and meets the gazes of the Winchesters; Sam expectant, and Dean layering a frown over his concern.

"I will rejoin you on the other side of the border."

This seems to satisfy Sam, and the younger Winchester nods and practically jumps out of the car, "I'm just going to stretch my legs."

Both Dean and Castiel watch him cross to the shade under the trees, expelling some of that high strung energy that seems to be just on the verge of exploding out of his body.

"Sam will be alright."

Dean huffs at this comment, but turns away at last from his younger brother, "So what'd she say to you?"

The sudden change in subject nearly catches Castiel off guard, "The girl? She told me not to 'Fear Not'."

Dean smiles wryly, "Someone's been watching too much Touched by an Angel."

"In Enochian," Castiel amends.

At that, Dean arches an eyebrow, "Is she..."

"No," Castiel shakes his head and immediately regrets the action as tiny sparks fly in front of his vision, "There wasn't...There wasn't any sign of angelic presence or interference...Nothing I could sense..."

"Right she just had the sudden urge to spout off angel-babble."

Dean swings the driver side door open and steps out into the reddish light cast by the sun sinking its way down the western horizon line.

Castiel goes to do likewise and a strange feeling shoots up from his right hand, into the side of his face. This, he realizes, is numbness. He completes the action unsteadily, and has to lean on the Impala for support. After a few seconds, his vision clears, but the strange numbness does not. Dean, who is watching his younger brother expend some of that frenetic energy on stones he is skipping across the lake, is thankfully not observing this. They stand for a few moments, the human lost in thought, and the angel fighting bodily sensations he has no familiarity with and worse, no control over.

"Right," Dean sighs, "I guess we better get this show on the road," he turns back to Castiel, and the angel frowns, as Dean's head is replaced by a giant swarm of sparkling colours and spots. "See you back in The Land of The Free."

Castiel, knows Dean is cueing him to go. But at the moment, the thought of flight makes his stomach turn with nausea. Nausea. He remembers nausea from his recent efforts to bend time. He also remembers vomiting. And in this moment, sincerely wishes he didn't.

"You waiting for something?" Dean asks, worry edging under the hunter's gruff veneer.

Castiel blinks rapidly, and the swarms of dots in his vision clear again a little, "My coat," he answers, his own voice seemingly coming from somewhere further away than it should.

The task is a little difficult with numb fingers, but Castiel manages to reach into the backseat and retrieve his trench coat, Dean watching him warily.

_What is this?_ Did something happen to his vessel? He can't think of anything particularly constitutionally damaging he has engaged in since his fall this morning, but that doesn't account for the numbness or the headache, or the way his hands are freezing, while the rest of his body feels far too hot and uncomfortable. With a will, despite the unwelcome extra heat, Castiel slips on the heavy coat, and sees Dean relax a little, as the angel's familiar image completes itself. Inside the pocket of the trench coat, Castiel's fingers curl around Dean's amulet. Against his freezing hand, the metal almost feels warm...

He closes his eyes and feels himself disintegrate into weightless, free particles. For a moment, he feels relief as the sensation of his physical body dissolves, and he senses he's reached his destination, but the next second brings a jarring impact as he becomes intimately familiar with asphalt. He barely manages to roll out of the way of an eighteen wheeler, the driver having had no hope of seeing the suddenly corporeal angel.

Clouds wheel dizzyingly overhead for a while, before Castiel dares to struggle to his knees. Using his powers should not drain him this much... Cars and trucks rumble by to his right, as he sways unsteadily. He once thought of his angelic abilities as something natural to him, something engrained in his very making, his essence. To think now that these things are becoming more and more difficult, that they are in fact now causing him harm somehow...

The growl of a familiar engine draws closer, and a short time later it's followed by voices even more so.

"Cas?!"

Dean is at his side, one hand on his shoulder as the man kneels in front of him.

"Man, you don't look so good," Sam's hand rests lightly on his elbow.

Castiel struggles with what is suddenly his very dry mouth, "I'm fine," he manages.

He will be. He just needs a moment to collect himself.

Dean's hand finds his chin and nudges it up, so that their eyes meet, and suddenly all bets are off, as a rushing void of sound fills his ear drums, and he pitches forward. Both Winchesters reach out and steady him, and Castiel fists his hands in Dean's coat to keep from planting his face hard in the mud.

"Yeah," Dean bites out angrily, "You're swell."

"Using my powers...is..." he shakes his head, and has to hold on tight with the dizziness that motion causes, "I will recover."

Dean holds him fast, mere inches from his face, "And at what point exactly were you thinking of mentioning this?"

"It is..." Castiel grinds his teeth, willing his failing body to cooperate, "It is temporary."

In reality, he has no way to know this for certain, but he has to believe it. He has to believe that this isn't a permanent thing. He cannot live out even what little is likely left of the existence of a rebel angel, a crippled, broken thing, grounded and helpless.

"You better-"

"Dean,"Sam cuts his brother off, slinging one of Castiel's arms across his shoulders, "Think maybe we could have this whole conversation somewhere else?"

A good amount of cursing and grumbling from Dean, and a good deal of unsteady footwork later, they reach the Impala, and Castiel manages to stop the world's tilting by closing his eyes. He falls into blackness.

The world returns oppressively bright some time later, and Castiel realizes they've stopped. The Impala is parked outside a small gas station, under a glaring street light and he is alone in the car. His head feels packed impossibly tight and his eyes are aching in their sockets. He winces and dips his head out of the artificial light, burrowing down into what he finds is his trench coat, tucked carefully around him.

Sam appears, settling into the driver's seat, jingling the keys, in a way that makes Castiel want to either slip back into oblivion, or get his powers back as soon as possible so he can smite the younger Winchester.

He winces at his own uncharitable thinking, and instead rasps, "Where are we?"

Sam startles, and (Praise be to The Creator) stops jangling the keys.

"Hey," he offers, appraising Castiel's bleary-eyed expression, "Feeling any better?"

"Yes," Castiel asserts. _Yes now that you've stopped making that noise_...

"Hm," Sam continues to regard him unconvinced.

Gingerly, Castiel pushes himself to a sitting position and stubbornly meets the man's eyes, "I assume we're closing in on The Horseman's position."

"I'd say it's a safe bet," Sam nods, and opens the newspaper folded on his knee, "St. Ida's hospital in Monroe just got overrun with what they're calling a sudden lethal influenza outbreak. There's starting to be talk of quarantine. Sounds like our guy. Not to mention the guy behind the counter" he hitches a thumb toward the gas station, "was saying people around here have been keeping their kids home, ever since there was an outbreak of some kind of bug in the local high school. It all fits with the general area the coven mapped out for us."

"That sounds...promising," Castiel agrees, "And as Pestilence grows in strength, these effects will spread even further." He frowns, and as an afterthought asks: "How long have I been...asleep?" The word feels foreign when using it in relation to himself.

"About four hours."

Four hours. He has simply lost that time, with no awareness of anything that transpired. The feeling is...unsettling.

The passenger door complains loudly, as Dean joins them, a small plastic bag in hand.

"Hey," he greets them, seeing Castiel awake, "You look like crap," he informs the angel.

"He says he's feeling better," Sam offers, although Castiel suspects Sam is not so subtly calling him on his inaccurate reporting.

"Right."

Dean reaches into the small plastic bag and pulls out a small white bottle of pills.

"You still got a headache?" Sam asks

"No Florence Nightengale," Dean scoffs, "Headache's gone. This is for Cas."

Castiel, looks up at the small bottle. He has no desire to take these pills.

"Thank you," he says evenly, "But I won't be needing them."

"Humour me," Dean retorts.

"Dean..." He sighs, his irritation is only making his head throb harder. If the two humans would just leave him be...

"Don't 'Dean' me," the hunter growls, his own irritation rising to the occasion, "You're going to take the pills, drink some water, and give your body a freakin' break."

The exchange continues, with Sam simply doing his best to stay out of it, and ends with Castiel taking the pills and drinking half a bottle of water, under Dean's mulish watch.

An hour later, the pain has dulled a little. Perhaps, the drugs were helpful after all, though Castiel prefers to think that he's finally regaining some of his rightful control over his vessel. As they drive further towards the coordinates provided by the coven, the radio crackles steadily with reports of the outbreaks of what reporters are calling a "Killer Flu Strain." Doctors however, are baffled, as the virus seems to mutate daily, and patients who began with identical symptoms seem to develop entirely different patterns from one day to the next. Various experts speculate on the different possible causes of the outbreak, but most are in agreement, that a quarantine of the area is likely imminent. Dean revs up past the speed limit, and after a while Castiel can feel himself drifting with the sound of the engine, and the drone of yet another doctor and conspiracy theorist...

_A young man in his early twenties, with long dark hair pulled back in a thick ponytail, sits peacefully in the middle of a shopping mall, as panicked men and women scramble to buy bottled water and other supplies, intent on barricading themselves in their homes, trying to wait out the epidemic. The young man rises unhurriedly among the chaos and walks toward a grocery store, where two men are perilously close to coming to blows over a can of tuna. As he brushes by an elderly woman, being supported by her middle aged son, and the old woman suddenly doubles over coughing. The level of panic in the small shopping centre immediately rises from frenzied to all out insanity. Like dominos, people begin to fall to the floor, coughing, retching, crying out with fear; everyone except for the young man. His expression is entirely placid. A small smile spreads across his handsome features and-_

"Castiel!"

Dean gives him another violent shake for good measure, and he has to grab the man's hand to stop the motion which is creating the urge to vomit.

"Castiel? You OK?"

Sam has pulled over to the shoulder of the road.

He nods, hands gripping Dean's forearms, where the hunter is still holding his trembling shoulders. This is the second time he's dreamed. It has happened only once before, while he lay unconscious, recuperating from his efforts at time travel, and it had not been a particularly pleasant experience then either.

"Dude, what was that?" Dean breathes.

"I..." Actually, he isn't certain. The dream would suggest he was seeing Pestilence...but he has never received psychic information in a dream before. Then again, this is only the second time he's ever dreamed... "I think perhaps-"

The sudden overwhelming presence of evil slams into him unexpectedly, as the sound of a wailing silence cuts him off.

"Oh come one," Dean gripes, twisting to see if it's the police.

Instead, an ambulance is hurtling towards them down the near deserted highway. It careens to a screeching stop about five feet from them, and two men in paramedics uniforms jump out.

"What the hell?"

"It's the Horseman," Castiel hisses.

And suddenly, the pounding pain in his temples intensifies tenfold. It's considerably difficult to tell what happens after that, as he doubles over in agony, but he does feel the lurch of the Impala as Sam tries to hit the gas. The engine revs, but they come to an abrupt halt, and Castiel is able to look up to see one of the paramedics standing in front of them, holding their escape back with one casual foot on the front bumper.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean growls, then "Sam!" a warning as the second attacker smashes through the driver's side window.

Sam makes a frantic swipe with the knife, but the demon recoils out of harm's way with a snarl. Then suddenly, the knife is wrenched by an invisible force from the hunter's hand and it skitters to the pavement. Dean swears and jumps out to search for their only effective weapon. The demon focused on Sam is distracted momentarily, and Sam takes the opportunity to connect the butt of a shotgun with the demon's face.

Castiel's eyes meet those of the figure who remains with one foot resting casually on the bumper as his partner enjoys slamming the hunters into the pavement. Pestilence. The pain reaches an unbearable crescendo, and he gropes blindly for the door handle, with nothing more that the desperate urge to get out of this place, screaming through his psyche. As he tumbles gracelessly to the ground, his left palm connects with something metallic. The knife. His fingers curve around the hilt, and though it only serves to ratchet the pain up another dozen notches, he cries out in Enochian, an exorcism ritual he has hasn`t thought of in millennia, and his blade finds the back of the demon who is choking the life out of Sam. Dean hauls him roughly to his feet, as Pestilence steps toward them, but instead of attacking, the Horseman offers them a sly smile, and in a cloud of billowing black smoke, explodes out of the human host. The man falls to the ground, and they can do little but watch in sickening captivation as the man seizes, coughs up blood, and literally putrefies before their eyes.

"What the hell?" Dean grimaces.

The other body doesn`t follow suit. The corpse simply remains, intact. Lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, mouth open in twisted shock.

"I repeat: what the hell?"

Castiel feels Sam's hands grab him from the other side steadying him. This is becoming an alarming trend.

"Pestilence," the angel rasps, before the ocean of overwhelming pain washes over him, and he loses all awareness.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Thanks for reading, and thanks to those that have dropped a review! Reviews are absolutely shiny!


	6. RISE AND SHINE

_Oh my...so I have returned with a LONG chapter. After last episode, I just needed to see Cas get some long-over-due comfort. Of course...as usual my muse demanded ANGST! First, so possibly this chapter is so long because It took me that long to get to my comfort portion._

_Warning: There is a suicide in this chapter. Not a main character one...just one that occurrs. Just warning.  
_

_I double checked: still making no money. Still not owning Winchesters or angels. More's the pity. _

RISE AND SHINE

_Hamburgers. He's never seen so many hamburgers on so many grills... The row of oil spattered ranges extends on and on, off into the distance, followed by the grimy grease-stained walls. Something about this place is...incorrect, his brain asserts. _

"_This is random," a voice from over his left shoulder startles him, and he notices for the first time, the teenage girl standing beside him. She's wearing a fast food uniform, and shows off straight rows of braces, and dimples in her acne spotted cheeks when she smiles. "But I guess I know what angels dream about now."_

_Castiel regards the new arrival sceptically. The soft hissing and the smell of cooking meat is arguably realistic, but perhaps he is dreaming... he does not remember coming to this place; cannot rationalize where this could be._

"_Not to brag or anything, but I do some of my best work around food," the girl continues, approaching him, and sitting down on a high stool, the kind reminiscent of fifties diners, that Castiel would have sworn was not there a moment ago. "I mean," she crosses awkwardly skinny legs, as she rhymes off her list, "salmonella, hepatitis, the Norwalk virus, Mad Cow..."_

_As she speaks, the smell seems to intensify. The sound of grease spitting and juices broiling... Castiel can feel his mouth water in response. The feeling is peculiar. It is not the hunger he felt under Famine's influence, but it feels like more of a warning, with his head beginning to buzz, as the discomfort mounts._

"_What's the matter?" The girl, or rather Pestilence, he realizes breaks off her list of accomplishments, "Something here making you a bit uncomfortable?"_

_He takes a step away from her, looking frantically for an exit, but sees only the endless stretch of grills and grease. This is a dream. He has to wake up. But how does one do that? _

_Pestilence hops off the stool, and draws closer, curiously, sizing up the angel. Castiel swears he can now feel sweat trickling down his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt and his coat._

"_You're a peculiar one," she says, her face softening, "I mean, you're not usually the type to be in my charge. Men, women, and children: yes. Angels? Not so much. You must be a special one..."_

_Castiel swallows the rise in his throat, "You're time here... is going to be short lived."_

_His attempt to sound fierce falls somewhat short. The grills hiss and whine, the heat intensifies, and Castiel sees flames shooting up in the corner of his eye._

_Pestilence smiles gently, "That's all well and good to have such fighting spirit, but you need to be looking to yourself here first, angel. I mean, last we met, you didn't look so good. You had quite the headache hm?"_

_A sharp pain explodes between his eyes and Castiel staggers backwards, perilously close to the sizzling grills. _

"_Dizziness too," the horseman adds._

_As the world tilts, Castiel feels himself topple towards the heat, towards the flames and the sickening smell..._

But he doesn't feel the flames ignite in his clothes, doesn't feel the superheated metal sear his skin. Where he suddenly finds himself, it's dark, and though too warm to be called comfortable, it's considerably better than the never ending fast food hell, he's just come from. Slowly, cautiously, he peels his eyes open.

Wooden beams crisscross overhead, illuminated by sunlight that is altogether too bright. He winces and groans, which immediately sets off a painful coughing fit. He throws one arm clumsily over his eyes and tries to catch his breath.

"Sam," he hears Dean's voice from across the room, "Close the curtains."

Moments later, he feels a light touch on his elbow.

"Cas?"

Reluctantly, he uncovers his face. The room is blessedly dimmer, and he finds himself looking up at Dean.

The hunter watches him, brows knit in a frown, "What happened back there?"

"Pestilence," It's little more than a whisper; not encouraging for someone who's true voice usually shatters all glass within a mile radius.

"Yeah," Dean nods to his brother, "We kinda figured. Still," he says, watching Castiel anxiously, "doesn't explain the swan dive you took back there, after our buddy horseman number four turned tail."

Castiel swallows against the painful swollen feeling of his throat, grimacing. Speaking is aggravating the soreness there.

"Here," Sam offers, producing a bottle of water.

He accepts it, and takes a cautious mouthful. At first, there's discomfort, but eventually, the cool water eases some of the ache.

"Where are we?" he manages after a minute.

He needs to orient himself, to shake off this sluggishness.

"Motel," Sam provides, "just outside Monroe."

"And since we had to drag your unconscious ass here, I think we deserve an explanation," Dean grumbles.

"I told you..."

"Yeah well, that's a load of crap, Cas," Dean cuts him off, "This isn't what it looks like when you overuse your mojo. I know. Last time I spent all night making sure you didn't pull a Jimi Hendrix, and then you got up, shook it off, and flapped off into the sunset. This is different."

"No. It isn't," Castiel rasps, returning Dean's glare; no small feat considering he has to do it from flat on his back. Then adds more gently," I'll recover," because despite Dean's best efforts, he can see the worry brewing in his charge's eyes.

"Cas," Sam intervenes hesitantly," Famine was able to affect you, or at least your vessel...Is it possible the same thing's happening with Pestilence?"

He presses his lips into a thin line, flicks his eyes back to ceiling. This is not the way it should be. He is supposed to be stronger than this, a soldier, a warrior...But he can feel the weakness, the unhealthy flush of fever creeping under his skin.

"It's possible," he concedes quietly.

Dean swears and abandons his place perched on the side of the bed. He paces restlessly, running a hand back through his short hair, "Great. This is freakin' great."

Castiel in turn, scrubs a hand over his face, pushing down the rise of hurt and irritation. Yes, he is aware of the expectation for him to be invincible, and he will gladly go back to doing so when his head stops pounding.

"Right," Sam takes over his brother's spot on the edge of the bed, "Well then we should get you out of here."

"It doesn't work like that," Castiel reminds the hunter, "Once someone is affected by the horseman, the effect persists no matter where they are."

Dean pauses in his pacing, and turns back to the angel angrily, "Why did you come in the first place then?"

"To protect you." The irony of that statement is apparent as soon as it leaves his mouth. He sighs," Like you," Castiel ammends, "I assumed my healing powers would be enough to protect me from the horseman's influence."

"So now what?" Dean growls, 'We just leave you here with a little cable TV, and Sam and I go after Pestilence, hoping we can bump off the son of a bitch before you-" The hunter swallows, and shakes his head, unwilling to complete that thought.

Castiel can see the wheels turning in Sam's head as the younger hunter begins to work out just what equation they're actually dealing with, "If your...vessel" he frowns slightly at the word, "If Jimmy's body's getting sick, it's possible he could die from this, right?"

"Yes."

"Jesus," Dean mutters.

"Then if he dies," Sam continues, "What happens to you?"

It's a good question. There is no other vessel for him to take. Claire Novak is simply not an option and in that bloodline, there is no one else. There will be no human form for him to anchor himself. Heaven will recall him. He will die an agonizing death. Again.

"I won't be able to help you after that."

The weight in that statement hangs pendulously heavy in the air.

"Okay, fine," Dean returns to pacing, "Cas takes a sick day on this one, and Sam, you and me go hunt down this demonic son of a bitch. We ward the hell out of the room, and we don't waste any time."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"Dean," It's becoming increasingly hard to argue with the hunter, as his throat aches and his head begins to feel strangely like it's drifting away from the rest of his body, "This horseman is like a disease; he's communicable. He spreads from host to host, changing his guise faster than you can track."

"So, what are you suggesting?" Sam, hands him the bottle of water again, and Castiel takes another mouthful.

"I need to go with you."

"Okay," Dean throws up his hands, "I vote Cas doesn't get a say in strategy. Right now, you look like a bunch of kindergarteners could gank you, I'm not liking your chances against a demonic horseman. "

"Cas, I don't know that that's such a great idea," Sam agrees.

The room is becoming increasingly hot, and stuffy, his clothes feel like they are sticking to him in several uncomfortable places. His throat complains sharply, but he presses on, "I can sense Pestilence's presence. You can't. It's foolish not to use that. The more quickly we find the horseman, the better the chance we have of stopping him; before he reaches his full strength."

The hunters are silent for a moment.

"He has a point," Sam admits.

Dean curses quietly, but doesn't offer any substantial argument.

It's agreed that after a few hours rest, they will set out for Monroe, taking the map provided by the coven, and begin a search of the area, for the horseman. Castiel allows Sam and Dean to help him out of his jacket and shoes, and Dean loosens his tie and slips it over his head. These are relatively simple tasks he should be able to perform himself, but for the moment, he permits the brothers' help. He needs to conserve his strength, and as much as it worries him, he doesn't actually possess the necessary power to object. Always in the background, is the drone of the TV, or the clicking of a keyboard as the hunters try to find out all they can about the epidemic sweeping the area. He lets his eyes slide closed.

_Scientists from around the country are mystified at this sudden lethal outbreak...local police and state troopers are forming a blockade around the surrounding townships...the army is expected to arrive within the next twenty four hours...immunologists being flown in from France and Germany... _

He feels a moist cloth settle across his brow.

"Dean?" His lips, move, but half dreaming, he isn't sure he actually speaks.

"It's Ok, Cas, just sleep. I'll wake you up when it's time."

He obeys, and drifts into his subconscious.

_He dreams of Londoners dying of the black plague, of 19__th__ century Chinese villagers wasting away from cholera, of whole tribes being obliterated by small pox..._

A hand on his shoulder shakes him awake, and he opens gritty, sore eyes. Dean presses a bottle of water into his hand, and helps him to a sitting position. The accompanying head rush almost sends him tumbling, but Castiel stubbornly holds on to consciousness. For someone perpetually reminding him to observe the sacred customs of "personal space" Dean breaks the taboo in order to hold him upright, resting the back of his hand firmly against the angel's brow. The coolness of the man's hand against his overheated skin is such a relief, he has to bite back the moan that wells up in his throat. When his head finally stops spinning, Dean releases him, and sits back, watching as he determinedly finds his equilibrium and manages to meet the hunter's gaze.

"You should drink some of that," he motions to the water, "Keep yourself hydrated."

Castiel obeys letting the tepid liquid wash away the unaccustomed grogginess of sleep. Dean stands restlessly, and shrugs on a suit jacket. For the first time, Castiel notices the hunter's different attire.

"This is a stupid plan."

Castiel frowns, trying to read his charge. On the surface, Dean is all anger and irritation, but there's something else behind the familiar green gaze.

"You're not in any shape to be doing this."

"I'll manage," the angel returns calmly.

"Yeah well," Dean shakes his head, "I don't see how you're supposed to be able to watch my back like this. Demons aren't exactly going to go easy on us because you're not on your best game."

Castiel sees through the change in tactics, and feels a bittersweet warmth for the human. On one hand there is the guilt, in the truth of what Dean's saying, but there is also the knowledge of what the hunter doesn't say. _I don't know if I'll be able to protect __**you**__._

"Be that as it may," he swings his feet back over the side of the bed, and tenaciously pulls himself to a standing position, "I'm going with you."

Sam is waiting in the Impala, dressed similarly to Dean, fingers drumming frenetically on his knee. Dean, already supporting a listing angel, spares his brother a quick pointed glance, before getting Castiel settled in the back. The broiling heat under his skin, has turned to chills, and he pulls his trench coat more firmly around himself.

"Where to?" Sam asks anxiously.

Both brothers look back at Castiel expectantly. He blinks back owlishly in the sunlight, "I don't know..."

The Winchesters share a confused look.

"Cas," Dean turns off the radio, "I thought you said you could track this thing?"

"You said you could sense it right?" Sam adds

"Yes but..."

"But what?" Dean demands impatiently.

"But I'm not some kind of seraphic bloodhound," the angel snaps.

It appears the persistent throbbing of his own pulse inside his head, is not conducive to a congenial mood.

"Easy there Feathers," Dean warns, though the tone is considerably softer than before.

Sam, still twitchier than a prison informant, manages to stifle the nervous tick being enacted on his denim-clad knee, long enough to inject some surprising calm into the situation, "Ok, so how do we go at this then?"

Castiel extends a hand, "May I see the map?"

Sam provides it, and he examines the radius the witches have set out for them. Monroe is a small town by any standards, and the circle of red ink encompasses most of the town centre.

"Were you able to find any promising leads for where the epidemic started?" he asks.

"A couple," Sam replies, shuffling through a few printed pages, juggling a paper coffee cup to his other hand "The local high school was hit pretty hard, and a few local factories," he adds, pointing out the locations on the map, "and I'm thinking we should check out the hospital."

"Great," Dean mutters," let's just hope these rings actually work, if we're going to go for a casual stroll through ground zero."

"I think," Castiel reasons, trying to pull his coat a little more snugly around his shivering frame, "That you would already know if you were being affected by the horseman."

They agree to start with the high school, since some of the earliest reports of illness were from teachers at the school. As they draw closer to the town's centre, it becomes increasingly apparent that Monroe is not enjoying its normal rhythm of small town life. No cars pass them either leaving or heading towards the town. Apparently the local traffic having been frightened off by reports of the epidemic. After about twenty minutes of driving, in which Dean fiddles with the radio unable to find much besides an increasing volume of special reports on the Killer Flu epidemic, and Sam alternates between foot tapping, finger drumming, and trying to ward off Dean's increasingly annoyed glares, Castiel isn't sure how humans can consider this a viable form of transit from which one can emerge with any vestige of their sanity intact. For his part, it's begun to be a tiring cycle of too warm, and not warm enough, in which his trench coat plays the starring role.

Suddenly, the first vehicle in nearly half an hour rumbles by, and Castiel looks up to see an armoured vehicle, which he recognizes as part of the American military's arsenal. A number of other currently useless facts about the fuel mileage, design, and history of such machines crowd into his weary mind, and he pinches the bridge of his nose breathing deeply until his thoughts quiet. He is accustomed to having access to information from his eons of existence present itself to his consciousness when he calls on it, but something in his divinity is seriously misfiring if all of this information can just bombard him unbidden. Perhaps, he thinks grimly, it is just the fact that it feels like his skull is splitting in half from the pressure on his sinuses, that is preventing him from being able to process the inane trivia flooding in.

He feels a hand come to rest on his knee, and he manages to look up to see Sam, offering him the bottle of Aspirin. _No_. He shakes his head silently. He's worried the pain is the only thing keeping him alert and on his feet. Sam shrugs and turns back to the road.

"Looks like we've got a problem," Dean mutters.

The armoured vehicle is slowing as it approaches a large blockade, which is also blocking the rest of the road into town.

Sam opens up the glove box and begins rummaging, "Looks like the army's already started the quarantine...What do you think?" he produces a couple of different fake IDs, "State troopers, FBI, CDC, Homeland Security..."

"Bingo," Dean takes a badge from his brother, "Is Bobby set up for this one?"

Sam nods, "Yeah he's got a line. The number's on the cards."

Castiel is handed a badge, which upon further examination has photo ID with his picture. He suddenly understands why Dean made him stand against the door in that motel in Tulsa taking pictures of him with his phone.

"Just let Dean do all the talking," Sam assures him.

Grimly, Castiel tightens his tie and buttons his collar, imitating the adjustments Dean performed the last time they illegally imitated employees of a government agency. He sits up straighter, trying to look officious and alert instead of like he is going to pass out any second.

There is a clipped exchange between Dean, the guard posted at the blockade, various military superiors, and Bobby Singer impersonating a high ranking official over the phone. Then, they are waved through into the town. The streets of Monroe are eerily deserted, and several of the houses they pass by are boarded up. The occasional army vehicle passes them, but for the most part, even the military seems loathe to spend too much time inside the quarantine zone. The local church has become a mass memorial site, with candles and wilting flowers sprawled across its lawn. Castiel thinks for a moment he sees a little boy sitting on the church steps wave at the Impala as it passes, but when he does a double take, the steps are empty. He leans his head against the cool window glass, and tries to stay afloat. Down a street lined with picturesque old trees, they find the aptly named Monroe High. The two story red-brick building is surrounded by yellow caution tape, but there is a beat up pickup truck and a Buick in the staff parking lot. Dean pulls in beside the Buick and Sam practically vaults out of the car, causing Castiel to suspect that he isn't the only one who's found this confinement near unbearable. Dean gets out and opens the back door on the driver's side.

"Feeling any warm-and-tinglies yet Cas?"

The angel winces. Would it really be so difficult for the hunter to lay off on the idioms for an afternoon?

"No," he rasps, sliding stiffly out of the open door.

He finds his feet beneath him, steadily enough, and follows the Winchesters into the building. They duck under the caution tape and enter the main office, where a man and woman both in their early forties sit, sifting through a pile of records piled high on every available surface.

"No Sue, just shred that one," the man says, then "Um can I help you gentleman?"

Dean clears his throat and whips out his badge, "I'm agent MacManus, this is agent Smecker and-"

"CDC or FBI?" the man cuts him off flatly unimpressed.

"Uh neither," Sam offers, "Homeland Security actually."

"Huh," the man turns his attention back to the stack in front of him, "That's a new one."

"We were wondering," Sam persists, "If we could ask you a few questions about the outbreak here at the school."

"Yeah sure," the man laughs dryly, "What's one more round?"

"Paul..." the woman at the paper shredder shoots them an apologetic look, "Why don't you go grab some coffee? I'll get the agents settled, and they can take your statement when we're all sitting comfortably."

Paul leaves them, the defeated slump of his shoulders disappearing behind a door marked _Staff Room_. "I'm sorry," the woman apologizes, "Paul's been under a lot of stress. He's not a epidemiologist you know? He's just a school principal, but he had all of these parents and families blaming him for...It was awful," she shakes her head, "I'm sorry. I'm Sue Carlyle, the school secretary, I'm helping Principal Park go through the student records. The CDC's demanding anything and everything we can give them. But you gentleman, her eyes sweep over them, lingering for a moment on Castiel's worn appearance, "You said you're from Homeland Security?"

"Yes that's right," Dean confirms, "We're just trying to make sure every angle of this thing gets covered."

"You mean like...a terrorist attack?" Sue asks sceptically.

"Maybe..." Sam subtly guides Castiel's slightly wavering form into a nearby chair, "Do you think that's a possibility?"

Sue gives a dry laugh, then sobering instantly apologizes, "Look gentleman, uh...agents. I love this town as much as anyone, but I know Monroe is just a insignificant speck on the map in the grand scheme of things. Now there've been a lot of theories: some people blamed the Chilean family that moved into the old Ritter place this fall, you know swine flu scare and all that. It was useless for a while to tell people that Chile and Mexico aren't even on the same continent. We had people blaming Mr. Whitting, the math teacher, who raises pigeons... It's been one witch hunt after another this last couple of weeks. People just looking to lay blame wherever-" She stops mid-sentence, suddenly noticing Castiel, "Is he alright?"

Invisible knives are working their way slowly but determinedly through the back of Castiel's head. He's certain of it.

"Cas?" Dean squeezes the angel's shoulder.

It feels like someone cranks the building's heat, and Castiel's vision hazes dangerously. But not before, he spots the figure of a janitor standing in the hall beyond, his balding head tilted curiously as he watches them. The janitor smiles, begins whistling tunelessly, and disappears around a corner.

"Dean..." It's incredibly difficult to form any more words.

The hunter, sensing his distress gives some hasty excuse to the secretary who stays with Sam, and guides Castiel out into the empty halls. His vision is reduced to little more than dizzying sparks of colour, until he feels Dean lean him against a cool smooth wall. A door swings shut, and he hears the sound of running water. Dean's hand falls across his brow and this time his efforts to stifle a moan are in vain.

"Jesus Cas..." Dean mutters.

A wet paper towel is applied to the back of his neck, and Castiel clings to the hunter raggedly.

"Dean..." he croaks, he has to warn him about the janitor.

"Shut up Cas," Dean orders, "Just shut up for a second."

The wad of paper towel is wetted again, and Dean holds it against the back of Castiel's neck, manoeuvring him out of his coat and jacket, loosening his tie, all the while supporting his weight against the cool tiled wall.

"Pestilence," the angel whispers, 'Dean...Pestilence..."

"You mean here?" the hunter asks in a low voice

"In the hall..." _He is going to pass out. _"A janitor..." _He can __**not**__ afford to pass out._

"Shit," Dean swears, "Shit," he pulls out his phone and texts Sam. A few seconds later, he pockets the device and slings one of Castiel's arms across his shoulders, "C'mon man, I've got you."

Castiel lists sluggishly, feeling dazzled by the glitter of spots dancing in his vision.

"Nope, nope, C'mon Cas. This is a shitty place to take a nap."

He clings to Dean's voice as much as his solid form. This is dangerous. He cannot leave his charge in the middle of a dangerous situation, no matter how invitingly unconsciousness beckons_...This is unacceptable... Stand up straight soldier_...

His feet complete the uncoordinated shuffle and they're back in the hall. They nearly step in the putrefied puddle wearing the Janitor's uniform.

"Ugh shit, gross..." Dean growls, then calls, "Sam!"

The younger Winchester is nowhere to be seen.

Dean shoulders open the door marked _Staff Room_, in search of the principal and they are met with the sight of the man hanged with his own tie from a rafter, loafers dangling above the lunch room table. _Suicide is a mortal sin_, some irritating version of Zachariah chimes in, in Castiel's head. Pestilence is a multi-faceted killer.

"Sam!"

Dean picks up their stumbling pace and bursts back into the room where they left Sam with the secretary. Sue is standing in the centre of the room, Sam pinned under one of her low, sensible heels.

"Hello, Dean. Hello, angel," she greets them pleasantly, "I was wondering when you would come and pay your respects to my work here in Monroe."

Dean lowers Castiel to the floor, and pulls out Ruby's knife, stepping protectively in front of him.

"I may only need to chop off your finger ," Dean growls, "But you're not making a very good case for me not to gut you right now."

Pestilence smiles indulgently, and releases her hold on Sam who gasps as his airway is finally free. With one hand, she reaches down and cups Sam's face tenderly. She frowns.

"What the hell is she..." Dean hesitates.

Castiel laughs weakly, and Pestilence's sweet, almost maternal look goes instantly stormy, "How are you two doing this?" she hisses.

Then her eyes fall to the ring on Sam's finger, "You insolent-"

Dean lunges forward and suddenly, Pestilence throws the host's head back, and streams upward, vanishing in a putrid black cloud. The woman's body topples onto Sam and immediately begins the familiar rapid decay process. Sam scrambles out from under the body, grimacing.

"You Ok, Sammy?" Dean sheathes the knife.

"Yeah," Sam nods, "I'll be fine."

Apparently Sam does not notice the way the room is turning very interesting colours, in fact, Castiel notices, the hunters seem oblivious to the way the walls are wavering, or the lights keep flickering unsteadily.

"Hey.. uh..." And with that language seems to just kind of fail him. He speaks every recorded human language and then some, but right now, absolutely no words seem to be able to materialize on Castiel's swollen tongue.

_Not good_, he observes bemusedly.

He vaguely discerns the move from the room they are currently in to a smaller office down the hall, and feels the wards Dean sets up reverberate against his grace. Sam produces a laptop from only God could possibly know where, and Dean divests him rather unceremoniously of his shoes, socks and shirt.

"You with me Cas?" the hunter asks gently.

"Mm..." Castiel thinks he answers, but maybe not.

He's lying on his back on some small padded table, and Dean rifles through the cupboards around the room, coming up with a bottle of Aspirin and a couple of energy drinks from a small fridge. It is far too hot here Castiel decides as the walls around him begin to melt slowly to the floor. He can't figure out why Sam and Dean seem not to notice, why they themselves are not melting. He certainly is. The touch of a cool cloth against his skin makes him jump, well twitch feebly is more accurate, but Dean steadies him, pressing the cloth over his forehead and along his neck.

"Here," Sam hands something to his brother and Dean sets down the cloth.

"You sure Sam?"

There's some vague debate that Castiel doesn't really care to hear. He's burning and drenched, and overhead he can see the roof of the school peeling away, and in the clouds overhead the sun blazes, and he can see his brethren circling, drawing closer towards him...

"Cas!"

The roof shifts, recombines and the angelic flight pattern overhead vanishes, and it's just Dean's face hovering over him, now, as the hunter props him up on a pile of musty smelling pillows.

"You stay with me you sunnuva bitch," the hunter orders, "Open up."

_Open what_? He thinks hazily. A small thin bit of plastic is wedged under his tongue, but because Dean keeps one reassuring hand over his brow, he doesn't resist.

Somewhere nearby, Sam is rattling off an incoherent list of information that the younger Winchester seems to be drawing from the computer screen in front of him. Dean mutters a few replies and choice words, that Castiel decides aren't important for him to try and decipher just now. The plastic object beeps efficiently once, and Dean removes it. Some more expletives and other words transfer between the two humans. The whole thing is...is wearying really. He wants to sleep. He wants to recede into a dark cool place away from all of this...but...this is a dangerous place. He can't just go to sleep and leave the brothers in a dangerous place without his protection...

He feels gentle hands support him and something cool and smooth is pressed to his lips.

Across the room, over by the door, Anna appears, her long red hair much brighter than he remembers.

"Anna..."

"No Cas...it's Dean...c'mon man, you have to drink."

This voice is much closer. Dean? Dean. He trusts Dean. He parts his lips obediently and cool liquid slides down his throat. There is a strange taste to it...

"Easy, easy Cas, c'mon...good."

He isn't enjoying this. The taste...the action of his throat working...He's an angel. He's not supposed to need food nor drink to sustain himself...

Beside Anna, Uriel appears. But he is dead. Yes, they are both supposed to be dead... But angels aren't supposed to die... Are they?

"I know..." A voice murmurs deep and soothing.

Did he say something?

"I know Cas. It's Ok."

Anna and Uriel look at him with a mixture of disgust and boredom. Their expressions say he is so weak, so offensively mortal. He wants to tell them to wait...not to leave him here...

"Drink," the voice reminds him.

More liquid trickles down his throat and he swallows. Then he is laid down. Two strong sets of arms hoist him up carefully. He sways gently as he is carried smoothly away. He knows nothing else after this.

* * *

_Wow um if you stuck it out through this long one thanks! and reviews are still pretty little shiny bits of pretty shiny...Wow. Need sleep..._


	7. Rabble Rouser

_Hello and thanks to all those who reviewed. You guys feed my addiction and motivate me to keep at this thing! So as I write this seems to be getting a little more AU, based on what's going on in episodes right now, but I think Krpike and I can peacefully co-exist. Especially since he's making all the money...I'm sure he doesn't mind me playing with whatever's in his toy box. So enjoy another chapter from Sam's POV..._

RABBLE ROUSER

Sam hates water fountains; especially the ones that require him to practically double over and twist himself impossibly to use, because some genius of architecture thought kids would enjoy drinking water more if it was in a horribly inconvenient alcove. And of course, the water pretty much always tastes like metal, and the temperatures are steadfastly lukewarm. Not to mention the fact that there's always the knowledge that the whole thing is likely covered in other people's spit and backwash. It's not really a germaphobe thing, it's more of an unpleasant-memories-of-junior-high-and-having-ones-face-shoved-in-said-spit kind of a thing. He now sincerely regrets making an expedition to the fountain outside Monroe High's nurse's office. Spit, and metallic tasting lukewarm water...peachy.

But there was only one bottle of water left in the nurse's office, and he's pretty sure at this very moment, Dean is diligently forcing the contents down Cas's throat. Sam's claims to be a doctor generally don't go any further than flashing a fake ID, but it doesn't take a medical degree to see that the angel's fever's raging out of control. Nothing that's come out of the guy's mouth has been anywhere near lucid, since they holed up here two hours ago, and it's a safe bet the celestial's been hallucinating, if the way his eyes have been roaming the tiled ceiling feverishly wide and bright is any indication. The thought behind barricading themselves in the school was to give him a chance to recuperate, because last time, when Cas dozed off in the motel, he seemed to bounce back within a couple hours, but the odds of that happening again aren't looking good. And if that's the case, their odds of finding the horseman are similarly going to suffer.

Dean's carefully laying the angel back down on the pillows, when Sam returns, holding the last water bottle in one hand, as predicted.

"You get him to drink anymore?"

"Some," Dean nods.

Sam begins gathering up the papers spread out on the counter, and bags the handy laptop from the office at the same time, "We should get moving. "

Dean nods again mutely, still watching the shuddering rise and fall of Castiel's chest.

Sam shoulders his bag and rounds to stand near the angel's feet, "Dean?"

"What's the next stage?" his brother asks quietly.

"What?"

"You said the doctors were starting to break this thing into stages."

"Uh yeah..."

Sam frowns recalling the articles he'd been reading. One of the advantages to being holed up here has been the time he's had to check the latest information on the web. Articles, and even tweets about the situation are rampant. People within the epidemic zone are blogging about what's going on. One of the authors, a Dr. Shu claims to be a doctor working out of Monroe General. The man's blog included a list of stages he'd seen so far in patients.

"The first stage is fever and extreme dehydration."

"And that's where Cas is at?"

Sam nods, "I think so yeah. He's not showing any second stage symptoms. Which is a good thing," he assures his brother.

"What's second stage?"

Sam swallows, "It develops into basically a hybrid version of smallpox and Ebola; death due to blood loss and organ failure."

Dean is silent for a moment, and Sam watches as a multitude of emotions play across his brother's face in a rare moment of openness. Cas may have been following heaven's orders at the time, but he did storm hell itself to pull Dean out, and so ironically his brother is protective of the normally formidable angel. Cas has essentially becomes family, socially awkward interactions and limited wardrobe, and all. And if there's anything Sam knows, it's that of all vulnerabilities, family is the one that hits the hardest. Sam opens his mouth to say something, but then the wall slams firmly back in place, and Dean stands up.

"Let's get him to the car. On three."

They manage to lift Cas relatively smoothly and they eventually get the angel laid out across the backseat of the Impala, coming close several times to banging various limbs on doorframes. It's only made more taxing by the fact that they have to watch for approaching demons or horsemen, or at this point, Sam probably wouldn't bat an eye at flying monkey's dive bombing them. Dean produces the ever-present trench coat and lays it lightly over the trembling angel.

"Dean..."

It's barely a whisper. Cas' eyes are closed, his brow deeply furrowed.

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean mutters, tucking the coat around him.

The angel is quiet again, and Dean closes the door carefully. Sam is about to do the same, when Cas' eyes flutter, and then go fearfully wide upon seeing him.

"No..." the angel rasps.

Sam places a hand on the angel trying to calm him down, "Cas it's OK it's me."

Castiel flinches as if he's been burned and begins to struggle frantically, his efforts weak, and hampered by the coat over top of him.

Dean yanks the other door open and has to stop Castiel from scrabbling backwards right out of it and onto the pavement.

"Whoa hey, Cas, easy!"

The angel gasps frantically in what Sam is guessing is Enochian and some other equally archaic language, but he does make out one word:

"...Lucifer..."

_Shit._

"Cas, Cas calm down buddy!"Dean grips the struggling angel tightly. "It's OK. It's just me n' Sam."

This continues without much result, until Sam grimly steps away from the Impala, and backs out of the angel's line of sight. The gradual quiet that follows proves his theory right. He hears Dean repeating softly,

"You're Ok...You're OK..."

And then silence.

After a few seconds Dean straightens up, shaking his head, "Dude, we need to find him some tranqs."

Sam remains unmoving. _Lucifer_. Cas thought he was The Devil.

"He's done freakin' out," Dean assures him.

"He thinks I'm Lucifer."

Dean sighs, "Sammy, he's tripping pretty bad. I mean, less than an hour ago he thought I was some dude called Jethro... either that or he was craving some serious Aqualung."

Sam's still too shaken at this point to point out the fact that Cas was probably thinking a little more biblically. They get in the car, but Sam can't help looking back warily at Castiel. The angel has gone back to weak shivering, and not much else though.

"So much for our handy dandy horseman detector, huh?" Dean offers wryly.

In this state, Cas isn't going to be doing much of anything, let alone hunting.

"You wanna take him back to the motel?"

Dean shakes his head, "Pestilence has us fingered. The sooner we waste the bitch the better."

Sam pulls the map out of his jacket and spreads it across his lap, feeling a slight tinge of pride that he does it with steady hands. With a task to focus on, he can feel the jitters subsiding.

"This area starts only a few blocks away. Maybe Pestilence has a base camp somewhere there, like Famine's set-up in the diner. Cas said the horseman needed to build up his strength right?"

"So," Dean frowns, looking over the red circle drawn by the witches, "then Pestilence might be holed up somewhere in the red zone." He scans the friendly little tourist map intently, "If I were an evil agent of the apocalypse where would I set up shop..."

Both brothers nearly jump out of their skins, when someone suddenly raps their knuckles against the window. Both reach for weapons, but stop when they realize the person standing at the passenger window, carrying a blue back-pack is a boy, about twelve years old.

"Hey Mister! Please! I need help!"

A brief look passes between the hunters; they've been fooled by kids before. Sam cautiously covers the sawed off at his side, and Dean conceals Ruby's knife.

"Hey," Sam opens his door, carefully, "Are you OK?"

"No!" the boy seems near tears, "Please, I need to get to the border. My family doesn't know I'm here and I need to find them!"

"The border?" Sam asks glancing back curiously at Dean, "You mean the border of town? Where all the soldiers are?"

"Yeah..." the boy wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie and looks up at Sam imploringly, "Everyone's trying to leave before more people get sick."

Sam frowns. The blockade had some pretty heavy security. It seems doubtful that a bunch of panicked civilians are going to be able to get out through any of the very few openings in the army's perimeter.

He turns back to Dean, "Maybe we should check it out."

He can see Dean's patented _Jesus-Sammy-you're-a-bleeding-heart_ look very clearly, but he ignores it, "Okay listen, don't worry. Me and my brother are going to take you to find your parents OK?"

The kid nods and grips his bag a little tighter, "Ok, but It's gonna be hard I think..."

"Don't worry. Here, you sit in the front," Sam offers, coaxing the boy to take his seat, "What's your name?"

"Emmanuel."

Dean gets out, pitching his voice low, "Sam, we really don't need to be picking up stray kids."

"We can't just leave him here," Sam reasons, "And I don't know about you, but a sudden attempt at a mass exodus doesn't sound like a good thing. It does sound like something Pestilence will probably want front row tickets to though."

"Whatever," Dean mutters, and then to Sam's surprise, tosses him the keys, "Hey," Dean holds up his hands in defeat at Sam's expression, "If we're taking the kid, he can't sit next to Typhoid Mary back there," he says indicating Castiel, "and apparently neither can you, since Cas seems to think you're The Prince of Darkness," he smirks.

An angel thinks he's evil incarnate and his brother thinks it's a knee-slapper. Great. This day is continually getting better. Yes it is.

Sam settles into the driver's seat, and waits for Dean to manoeuvre his way into the back. His brother ends up with Cas' upper body somewhat awkwardly braced across his lap, with the angel's legs curled slightly to accommodate the small space. As Sam puts the key in the ignition, Cas begins a feeble struggle against the coat draped over him.

"Nhh...burns..." the angel protests as Dean makes to hold it in place.

Emmanuel turns and solemnly watches the ailing angel. Out of one of the coat's pockets, Dean's amulet tumbles out, and the boy helpfully picks it up. Sam, seeing this out of the corner of his eye, quickly holds out his hand.

'Here Emannuel, I can take that. Thanks."

The metal is hot in his palm as the boy deposits it there. His heart skips a beat, but as he glances back at Castiel, he disregards the thought. The amulet's been lying against the angel's burning body; no wonder it's a little warm. He stows it and goes back to concentrating on the road.

"Is your friend sick?" the boy asks.

"Um," Sam clears his throat, "Yeah he's a little sick, but he'll be OK."

"You should take him to the hospital," Emmanuel replies sagely.

"We're going to," he assures the kid, lying for the time being "after we find your family."

In the backseat, Castiel gives a faint plaintive moan.

"Easy Cas," Dean murmurs.

"...Father..." the plea is barely a whisper as it escapes the angel's lips.

Sam swallows hard. Things must be getting pretty bad for Cas to make him sound like that, so desperate and pleading to his absentee father.

He's surprised to hear Emmanuel beside him turn and mutter softly to the angel, "It's alright. They'll take care of you."

The boy notices him watching him and faces forward in his seat again, smiling shyly at Sam, before looking out the window.

Castiel for his part, seems to settle and drift again, quieting.

They drive in silence for a few minutes until they near the church they passed on the way into town. There seems to be more detritus in front of it, and as they continue on, they begin to see a line of cars stretching about eighty vehicles up to the gates of the barricade, where armed soldiers are desperately attempting crowd control.

"Crap," Dean breathes.

People are jammed bumper to bumper and there's panic and anger written plainly on everyone's faces.

"They're not letting them leave," Emmanuel whispers.

Sam winces, as a man in the minivan beside them gets out, a shotgun in hand,"Do you see your parents?"

"No," Emmanuel shakes his head.

"What do you think?" he mutters, looking back at Dean.

His brother is watching the riot-waiting-to-happen grimly, "I think the kid'll be safer in the car."

He negotiates his way out of the backseat and Sam joins him, telling Emmanuel to stay put.

As they work their way towards the front of the traffic jam and towards the barricade, they gradually find themselves in the middle of a thickening crowd of angry townspeople. A few carry shotguns, but some have their kids in their arms, and all of them look pissed.

"These are healthy people!" A tall skinny balding man insists to the soldiers standing in full combat gear, barring the gates.

A female soldier, who seems to be in charge, steps forward in an effort to calm the swelling crowd, "I understand you're worried, but our orders are not to let anyone leave the quarantine zone. This is for your safety!" she yells above the crowd imploringly.

"Our safety?!" a young woman in a black blazer shouts, "How are we safe inside a place where people are getting sick and dying?!"

Another man pipes up, "We don't have this virus thing! We're healthy people! We should be free to take our families to safety!"

At that the crowd surges forward, and the female commander has to quickly back up. The soldiers manning the barricade are looking increasingly anxious.

"Go back to your homes," the commander urges, "You're safest there for now!"

The tall skinny bald guy steps forward and growls, "This is a violation of our constitutional rights! We're getting out of here and no one's going to stop us! I don't care what it takes!"

The man reaches for something in the pocket of his denim jacket, and that's when all hell breaks loose. A shot is heard distinctly above the angry buzz of the crowd and then screams as the bald man collapses with a bullet hole in his chest. A young soldier at the barricade holds his gun in shaking hands. As the crowd goes into absolute panic, Sam spots two things: the cell phone that skitters out of the now limp hand of the man who's been shot, and an old man in overalls sitting on the abandoned cab of a pickup, laughing gleefully to himself. Either the old guy's completely senile or...

"Pestilence!" Dean shouts over the crowd.

They both battle against the tide of people now fleeing the barricade, but the press of panicking bodies carries them apart and ultimately away from the horseman. Sam loses sight of Dean first, then the old man.

"Dean?!"

Eventually he's so far from the barricade that he sees the Impala.

"Emmanuel!"

He sprints back to the car, but finds it empty save for Cas. He searches the crowd frantically for the kid, but his search comes up empty.

"Sam!"

Dean appears out of the throng, looking about as freaked as Sam feels.

"Emmanuel's gone," Sam informs him.

"Shit," Dean swears, "Maybe he found his parents?"

"Yeah," Sam's unconvinced, but there's not much they can do. "What about Pestilence?"

Dean makes back for the Impala, "Bitch gave me the slip. You?"

"Same," Sam replies tossing his brother the keys as they reach the car.

Dean seems more than eager to get his baby out of the frenzied mob of people. "Check on Cas," he orders, starting the engine and looking for a path clear of fleeing bodies.

The angel has managed to curl into the foetal position on the backseat, and is muttering harshly under his breath. It's impossible to distinguish whether it's prayer or feverish rambling.

"Cas?" Sam reaches out and tentatively lays his hands on Cas' shoulders, gradually coaxing him out of the cramped position.

He sees a trickle of crimson against Cas' pale skin, that traces a path from his nose, partway down his chin. _Not good. _

"Shit, Cas," he curses, and Dean turns around as well.

Sam is gratefully surprised when Castiel weakly allows him to wipe away the blood with some Kleenex he finds in the glove box, without freaking out. The angel's eyes are squeezed tight and he keeps up the unintelligible stream of rasping speech.

Loud sirens cut through the sound of the crowd, and somehow, the vehicle makes its way to a stop within a few dozen feet of the Impala. Two paramedics jump out, and Dean groans.

"Again? You have got to be kidding me!"

"Sir?" the first paramedic dashes up to them, in a distinctly un-demonic way, and Sam lets out a small bark of laughter.

_Imagine: a paramedic who's actually a paramedic and not the body of a paramedic being worn as a meat puppet by a being of pure evil. Will wonders never cease?_

Dean rolls down the window and the paramedic is joined by his partner, "We got a call about an emergency. Some kid gave us the description of your car."

"Emmanuel?" Sam blurts.

"Kid didn't give his name," the other paramedic says, eyeing the surging crowd, "And then not two minutes later we get another call about a guy getting shot by soldiers."

Another ambulance speeds by, miraculously missing bystanders, as a group of people bearing the bald man on a stretcher rush to meet it.

"Your buddy in the back," the first paramedic presses, "He looks like he's in bad shape."

"Yeah," Dean clears his throat, making up his mind not to stab the men with the demon killing knife.

They get Cas onto a stretcher despite various pitiful protests from the delirious angel.

"It's OK man," Dean does his best to calm him, while the paramedics take a quick moment to check Cas' vitals.

The crowd around has begun to give them a wide berth. No one is interested in getting close to anyone who might be infected, and most people have fled by now.

A trembling hand reaches up and fists in Dean's jacket, as blue eyes peel open, "Michael..." the angel rasps.

Sam feels a chill travel down his spine.

"Michael?" the paramedic attempting to strap Cas down looks at Dean, "Is that you?"

"No," Dean answers faintly.

"Ok," the other paramedic produces a syringe, "I need to sedate him."

Cas continues to struggle feebly, "Michael...brother..." he pleads desperately.

"Easy Cas," Dean tries to comfort the angel, as the paramedics manage to inject him with a sedative.

They check his vitals again, and Cas' hand gradually releases the front of Dean's jacket, as the angel loses his battle with the drugs.

"We'll take him to Monroe general."

Dean nods numbly, and Sam watches as he climbs in the ambulance after them. Sam walks back to the Impala, watching as the last of the crowd disperses as the soldiers regain control of the area. Somewhere, he's sure Pestilence is laughing to himself. Sam can't wait to cut off the bastard's finger.

* * *

_Once again, thanks for reading!_

_~Amazon_


	8. Riddle Wrapped in an Enigma

_So I went on a writing binge. And this was the result. I've really enjoyed people's reviews and speculations about what was going on with Emmanuel, but my lips are sealed! I checked under my bed and in the closet: no Winchesters, no Castiels, and no piles of money from writing this. How's that for a disclaimer?_

RIDDLE WRAPPED IN AN ENIGMA

Dean hates hospitals. He hates the smell, he hates the paperwork; he hates the bad coffee and the worse memories. For all that he was raised to grit his teeth, set his own bones, and stay away from hospitals, it seems one way or another he ends up here. And it doesn't matter if he thinks about the time he was eight and Dad took him to that hospital in Florida and the nurses tried to call the cops on John because they couldn't tell the difference between a poltergeist hunt gone askew and child abuse, or the time he lay dying of a busted heart and one too many thousands of volts of electricity; all hospitals feel like the same place. In a freaky twilight zone kind of way, he sometimes imagines he's seen the same receptionist at every desk, has been told to sit down and shut up by the same veteran nurse, in every hospital he's ever been in. It's not that he thinks other people have particularly fond memories of hospitals; if you're there you're probably sick or busted up, or you're waiting to hear some bad news. But every time he steps through the emergency room doors, he can just about hear it again: _The damage to your heart is irreparable... I'm sorry about your father. We did everything we could... You broke the first seal. You have to stop Lucifer..._

He can just picture Cas sitting there that time, chock full of naive belief in God, in the angels, in Dean. Fat lot of good it's done him so far, he thinks, feeling his back pop as he gets up from the hard plastic chair, and leans against the rail of the bed where Castiel lies paler than the sterile sheets under him. He's barely twitched since the paramedics handed him over to the ER nurses, who got him transferred to this "temporary" bed, which was wheeled off to some out of the way corner until one of the very few doctors still up and kicking can spare a minute. All the nurses look overworked, the few army medics supplementing the shrinking staff aren't nearly enough. There are no rooms, no beds, not enough doctors, but at the very least, they've given Cas what must be one hell of a sedative if it knocked out the angel, and a motherly nurse in pinks scrubs did come by and hook Cas up to an IV. At least he's getting fluids now that Dean doesn't have to fight him to swallow.

"Hey."

He looks up and finds Sam loping towards him taking in the chaos of the hospital around them, with wide eyes. Dean's pretty much stopped noticing it after sitting here, a bit of detritus for the past hour.

"I tried to find you guys," Sam offers him a cup of coffee that he knows will be the standard sludge, but he takes it gratefully anyway, "They said no one had been admitted in the last couple hours. A nurse finally told me there were a lot of 'floaters,' patients without rooms, not considered to be absolute emergencies, who got left in the hall, waiting to see a doctor," Sam pauses to take a long swallow of coffee, "How's Cas?"

His brother has had the shakes for the better part of a week and now he's downing the caffeine. Great. But Dean keeps his mouth shut, and shakes his head in the negative to Sam's question.

Sam nods, frowning, and it would almost be comical the way his brother's body is practically vibrating, but Dean pretty much just wants to sit down with a bottle of whiskey and keep going until he sees the bottom at this point, and isn't in a laughing kind of mood.

"It sounds like doctors are dying off faster than they can recruit new ones," Sam continues, "and the nurses are pretty much working double, triple quadruple shifts to keep up with the new arrivals. They can only admit the sickest ones. The rest get sent home for their families to look after, and of course the family catches the virus and they end up back here, and the vicious cycle keeps going."

"Any sign of our buddy Pestilence?" Dean asks wearily.

"No," Sam reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, "But I did get a call from Alexandra and the coven back in Whitedeer. They think they have a lead. They're saying they think the hospital might be the epicentre."

Dean frowns, "So Disease itself is kicking back and relaxing in a place designed to wipe out sickness and viruses? They sure they're looking at the magic 8 ball right?"

"I don't know," Sam shrugs, turfing his coffee cup, "It kind of makes sense. If Pestilence operates like Famine, it means he's feeding off of the souls of the people that die, and probably the vast majority are dying around here."

As if on cue, Cas gives a faint groan, his head tossing weakly.

"Easy buddy," Dean mutters, squeezing the angel's shoulder, "We're not letting that bitch get you."

Castiel mumbles indistinctly, for another moment before quieting again, his brow furrowed with pain.

"Think the drugs are wearing off..." Dean mutters, briefly laying the back of one hand to the angel's sweat slicked brow.

"Dean," Sam interjects quietly, "there's something else. Alexandra's mother..."

"The old broad with the hots for you?"

"...Yeah," Sam swallows, "She's sick. They think Pestilence's effects might be spreading out from Monroe. It's only a matter of time before other towns recognize an official outbreak."

That means more towns like Monroe; hemmed in by a military quarantine, slowly tearing themselves apart, where the virus isn't killing them fast enough.

"We've gotta stop this thing, Sammy."

"Here," Sam hands him a piece of paper. The only thing on it is a "7" in Sam's handwriting.

"What's this?"

"Before Alexandra's mother got sick, she had one more vision. She said the hospital was where we needed to look, and this was the second sign we'd need to find the horseman."

"Like room seven?"

Sam shakes his head, "I don't know man. The vision wasn't really specific apparently. But," And Sam gets that hopeful gleam again that Dean is almost growing to resent, "It's something to go on."

"Sam," he scrubs a tired hand over his face, "this could be anything. The seventh floor, Room 107, room 777, hell it could mean any room with the number 7 in it, or any other number of crazy mumbo jumbo!"

His brother scowls at him, "You have some better information to go on?"

"I'm just sayin' it's more than a little vague!"

"Well what were you hoping for Dean? A giant neon sign 'Horseman this way'?!"

"Yeah well maybe that'd be nice right about-"

"Why are you being so-"

They're both abruptly cut off by a wracking cough from the bed beside them. Cas is unsuccessfully trying to roll onto his side, as blood flows out of his nose, and he coughs up more red spots onto the bedding around him.

"Shit," Dean grips his shoulders and hauls him upright, as the angel shudders and hacks wetly.

Cas' skin feels like it's on fire. Eyes wide and unfocused, he tries to pull away from the hunter.

"Easy...Easy Cas..."

Amid the hoarse gasps for breath, Castiel, manages to choke out one word, "...Michael?"

"No," Dean says a little more forcefully than he intends, "Cas, it's me. "

Sam appears helpfully with a towel he snags from a nearby nurse's station.

The nosebleed seems to be slowing, but Cas is still having a hell of a time getting a decent lungful of air.

"...Michael..."

Dean decides to concede the point for now. Arguing with the delirious angel is getting him absolutely nowhere.

"Jesus...OK..." he mutters, "Listen to me," he tells Castiel, gripping him tightly, as Sam disappears again, presumably to find someone with some kind of a medical degree, "Breathe. You've gotta breathe."

Cas'hand twists in his shirt front, as he struggles to draw breath, shaking his head as if to deny the simple reality.

"C'mon. It's OK. Breathe." Dean reassures him firmly.

Cas curls inward, pulling in close to Dean's chest as he grips him, until he's able to draw a shuddering full breath. For a dick of an older brother the angel is fighting tooth and nail to keep out of the picture, Cas seems to be clinging awfully desperately to, someone he thinks, is Michael.

"That's it," Dean mutters, rubbing a soothing circle across his friend's trembling back, "Breathe."

"Agent MacManus?"

He almost doesn't respond to the alias, he's so absorbed in the task of holding Cas together. But he looks up in time to see Sam's returned with a petite female doctor in tow.

"Agent MacManus," she says again more gently, this time, placing a meaningful hand on his arm, "I'm Dr. Shu. Let me see what I can do here."

Dean dislodges Cas as best he can to give her access, and she checks him over quickly before producing a clear tube. She feeds something quickly into the IV line and then gets the tube in to open Cas' airway. Dean winces in sympathy, but the sedatives seem to do their job, and Cas has gone limp and compliant. Two nurses, jog doggedly up and the women exchange a few words, before Dr. Shu and the first nurse take hold of the bed and IV pole.

"A bed's just opened in B Wing. I'll have Karen help you fill out the necessary paperwork, and then you can come and check on your partner, alright agents?"

"Thanks doctor," Sam nods, steering Dean away from the bed, as the doctor and the first nurse whisk Castiel away.

The second nurse, offers them an exhausted but sympathetic smile, "You two are government agents?" she asks.

"Homeland Security," Sam offers.

"Well, don't worry," she says kindly, watching Dean follow Cas' departure with his eyes, "Doctor Shu's really great."

She's young, pretty, probably fresh out of nursing school. Dean dredges up charm he's not really feeling, and manages a faint smile in return. Karen leads them to a small supply closet that's been cleaned out and outfitted with a desk, a couple chairs, and filing cabinets.

"Welcome to my office," she says waving them in and closing the door, "Sorry," she apologizes, rifling through the nearest filing cabinet, "I know it's kind of cramped, but things around here are sort of in transition, while we figure out where to put everybody, patients, doctors, nurses, military...The old office got turned into barracks... Ah here," she produces some paperwork, which Sam takes, before opening another drawer and producing a couple of syringes and plastic tubes, "I hope neither of you mind needles," she continues, "We have to check everyone's blood that comes in."

"I can take you first if you like," she says looking at Dean.

He takes the seat she indicates and rolls up his sleeve.

"'Been working here long?" he asks trying to sound conversational.

"About a year," she answers, disinfecting a spot on his arm for the needle.

"So you've been here since this whole virus thing started?"

She slides the needle in expertly with barely a pinch, and nods, "Um, yes I've been here since the first patient came in."

"And you're not sick?"

She looks at Sam and smiles tiredly, "No I've been lucky. The vaccines they gave us against this virus..." she hesitates, "Well you guys are government, so you probably already know all about it... but the vaccines are hit or miss. A lot of my coworkers..." she clears her throat, "We've been hit hard."

She finishes with Dean and Sam takes his place.

"You notice anything strange or...suspicious since the outbreak?" Dean asks, holding a piece of gauze against his arm, "Like anyone acting really out of character?"

Karen raises her eyebrows, "Well I mean we're running on basically no sleep so people are- try to keep still agent Smecker," she instructs Sam, "But no, I haven't seen any suspicious white powder or terrorist meetings going on on hospital grounds if that's what you mean."

She finishes up with Sam and enters something in the computer on the desk, "Your partner is in room 504," she informs them, "And I'm going to send your blood to the lab. Is there anything else you need agents?"

"No. Thanks," Sam shrugs his jacket back on, "We'll be in touch if we have any more questions."

---

They walk to the elevator together, and ride up to the fifth floor in silence, wedged between a family of four and an old man in a wheelchair. Dean surreptitiously checks their fingers for suspicious looking rings, and notices Sam doing the same, but nothing jumps out at either of them. They get out at the fifth floor and follow the numbers until they reach room 504. There's a sign on the door instructing visitors and staff to wear masks and gloves at all times, and he and Sam don them with the ironic knowledge that even were they in danger of getting the virus, it would take one hell of a lot more than a little latex and hand sanitizer to stop the horseman.

They pass by the first bed, with a teenage girl, and her mother asleep in the chair next to it. Another girl, maybe six or seven years old is curled up on the mother's lap, also asleep. They come to the second bed, with the privacy curtain drawn. Dean takes a breath and steps through, Sam close on his heels. Amid the wires and tubing, Castiel lies still and pale, hooked up to a heart monitor and a morphine drip, and a few others Dean can't identify. He's never seen the angel look so...fragile before.

"Agents?"

Dr Shu appears, clipboard in hand, "Is there any next of kin we should be contacting for your partner?"

Dean lets out a soft snort. Cas' dick brothers are probably overjoyed that Pestilence is trying to do their dirty work for them, to say nothing of the angel's deadbeat dad.

"Um, no," Sam answers her, "He... doesn't really have anyone except us."

The doctor nods sympathetically, "I understand. Well," she flips through the chart in her hand, "There's good news and bad news here. The bad news is, your partner is showing signs of the second stage of the virus. The good news is, his symptoms are still treatable. We've intubated to help him breathe a little better, and I've started him on a round of meds that will hopefully bring the fever down, and fluids to replace what he's already lost. Right now, we're giving him morphine at a low dosage. I'd prefer to prescribe more, but our supplies are running low, as it's difficult to get any supplies through the military's quarantine."

"Thanks Doctor," Sam answers after a moment, and then, "And uh, also, we have a few questions for you and your staff. Is there a time you'd be available to answer a few questions?"

Dr. Shu checks her watch and sighs, "Well, I was scheduled for my first break all day...But," she nods wearily, "If you think it'll help, we can step into my office."

"Thanks," Sam nods to Dean, "You'll stay with him?" he asks looking at Castiel.

Dean reads in his brother's expression what Sam doesn't say as well. _You'll talk to patients and nurses and look for signs of Pestilence, and crazy nonsensical clues involving the number seven?_ And _Are you OK?_

"Yeah."

Dean confirms all of these, and Sam smiles wryly, and exits with the doctor.

He turns his gaze back to Cas, and shakes his head, "Dude, you look like crap," he mutters, sinking into the chair beside the bed.

There's a brief spike in the heart monitor, and Cas' hands twitch feebly for a moment, opening and closing as his brow furrows in pain. The morphine dose must be pretty low after all. Dean wonders whether the low dose is even having an effect at all. He reaches out a tentative hand and lays it on the angel's arm. After a few seconds, Cas goes still again, the rhythm of the monitor smoothing out.

"Hang in there, Cas," he whispers, "I'm gonna cut that son of a bitch's finger off if it's the last thing I do."

---

Once he gets out in the hall, Dean ditches the gloves and mask and heads for the elevators. _Seven_. Great. The witches might as well have said to look for "green", he thinks looking at the nauseating shade of hospital green covering all the walls. He gets in and pushes the button for the seventh floor. They have to start somewhere...

---

After two hours of talking to every warm body on the floor that'll give him a minute, after looking in every room, every lounge, every freakin' janitor's closet, on the seventh floor, he's come up with jack squat. This is getting him nowhere. He can only hope Sam's had better luck. Or any luck at all. He makes the trek back to Cas' room, and finds his brother jammed awkwardly into the uncomfortable chair at the angel's bedside, with a laptop balanced on his knees. Closing the privacy curtain, Dean chucks his own mask and gloves beside Sam's on the table nearby and sits on the foot of the bed.

"Dude, please tell me you've got something other than the absolute bupkis I found on the seventh floor."

Sam licks his lips, eyes not leaving the laptop, "Well... it turns out our Dr. Shu is the same Dr. Shu who's writing the blog I've been following."

"You find anything other than something to fuel your internet crush?" Dean grumbles, finding the coffee cup beside him woefully empty.

Sam spares him an annoyed glance before going back to the screen, "Before the epidemic, her blog wasn't really about anything medical, it was more a 'day in the life of a doctor' and politics of a hospital. The names are all changed, especially where patients are involved, you know doctor patient confidentiality...but there's some detailed stuff here, and I'm thinking if I can go through her entries, I can get a sense of anything weird that's going on beyond the obvious."

"Hm," Dean's stopped really paying attention to Sam's internet geek fest and is watching Castiel.

The angel's brow is furrowed as if caught in pain or deep concentration.

"They lowered his morphine again," Sam says softly, "The nurses said supplies are really low."

---

The rest of the day, and most of the next hold similar results; despite having searched the entire seventh floor again, and every single room number with a seven in it, they're no closer to finding Pestilence. They've called Bobby and have an exact description of the ring they're looking for, figuring by this point, that the horseman must take the ring with him when he changes bodies, but they've still got squat after two days. Castiel, for his part, is getting gradually worse, but the nurses are still saying he's fighting off the virus better than most people. The holy tax accountant's stronger than he looks.

It's late afternoon, and the tower of empty coffee cups on the table beside Cas' bed is getting monumental. Sam's in his usual place, laptop out, diligently pouring over records, reports, and the good doctor's blog. Dean's just returned from a typically depressing, and not too result-yielding interview with patients' families, and leans against the wall by the window, listening to the hypnotic beeping of the monitors in the room. He watches Cas' face, mesmerized by both the shadow of stubble he's not used to seeing and the periodic flickering movement of the angel's eyes under his lids. He looks so human, so vulnerable.

"Excuse me..."

Both he and Sam look up startled, as the woman whose daughter occupies the neighbouring bed, pokes her head through the privacy curtain. They've exchanged a few polite monosyllables with her over the past two days, but not much else. Sam follows her eyes to the table where their masks and gloves lie discarded and gives the woman a sheepish smile. Usually, they try to keep up the pretence of wearing them around the nurses.

"It's OK," she says, seeing his guilty expression, "I usually take mine off too. I figure if I haven't caught it by now..."

She's middle age, tired looking, dressed in a track suit that looks rumpled from her constant vigil over her daughter.

"Yeah," Sam offers her a sympathetic smile.

"I was just wondering," the woman continues softly, would you mind if I used your laptop? I'd just like to e-mail my husband. I can't seem to get his cell. He was at a conference in Maine when the quarantine got declared. He couldn't get past the army barricade."

"Sure," Sam quickly closes what he's been working on.

"Thank you so much. I'll be quick," she promises.

"Don't worry," Sam assures her, "Here you can take my chair."

Dean straightens up, seeing what his brother is doing, setting this woman up for the umpteenth interrogation of the day. He scrubs a tired hand over his face. No matter how many ass-flavoured cups of coffee he drinks, he feels brain-dead tired. He's pretty sure the withdrawal jitters are the only thing keeping Sam so chipper.

Sam steps off to the side to give her some privacy, "How old are your daughters?" he asks, his voice taking on that familiar sympathetic tone his brother uses with victims' families.

"Fourteen and six," the woman answers, "The doctors say kids are holding up better against this thing for some reason, so I'm hopeful, but you know...realistic too," she adds. "How's your friend doing?" she asks politely, gaze going to Castiel.

They exchange a few more niceties, and Dean eventually tunes out the conversation. He's already heard the same story a hundred times by now. He closes his eyes, resting for a moment.

"Did you say _Seventh_ Day Adventist?"

Dean blinks to alertness at Sam's tone, and sees his brother eyeing him.

_Did you hear that?_ Sam's expression says.

"Yes," the woman looks a little taken aback at his reaction, "He said he was. But like I said the chaplain has been very consoling. I'm not normally a religious person, but he's a very nice man. Only been working here a few months. Although, I have to say I wasn't aware Seventh Day Adventists had such...mystical beliefs."

"Oh," Dean glances at his brother. _Shit. Yeah, man right there with ya_. "Like what?"

"Well," the woman hesitates, "I suppose it's not that odd, but he kept talking about angels."

"Angels?"

If this soccer mom wasn't still in sight, he'd have whipped out the demon killing knife and started sharpening it already.

"Yes," she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "He was saying all kinds of strange things about angels being immense sources of power for any being that needed a 'big boost' in energies he said. Very nice man," she adds, "But with some rather strange beliefs."

"What else did-"

But Sam is cut off by the sound of an alarm. One of the machines Cas is hooked up to is throwing a hissy fit, and Castiel goes into all out convulsions.

"Shit!" Dean rushes to pin the thrashing angel before he can tear out anything, which he's thinking would be a seriously bad thing.

The woman scurries to a safe distance from the commotion, and Sam rushes to help him.

"Dean!" he shouts over the machines that are now all seemingly mid melt-down, "Hang on! I'll get a nurse!"

"No! Sam! It's that demonic son of a bitch doing this," he growls, losing and frantically regaining his grip on Castiel, "Just go! You know where the chapel is! Go and waste that bitch before she kills him!"

Sam hesitates only long enough for Dean to shove Ruby's knife into his hand, before his brother darts off.

"C'mon Cas!" he urges the angel, "Fight! Don't let that son of a bitch win!"

The angel's eyes fly open, but instead of the usual blue, they're brimming with light. Oh God. Dean realizes, Cas is trying to bail out of his vessel.

"No,no...Cas!" he presses him harder into the bed as if he can hold the angel in his vessel with his bare hands, "You can't abandon ship buddy, come on..."

The lights in the room flicker and sparks fly from both the machinery and the fluorescent lights overhead, and then suddenly everything goes deathly, eerily still. He hears a commotion out in the hall, then the distinct sound of the room's door slamming, and then quiet again. Cas is lying still now, eyes closed, no more freaky angel light seeping out, and the only sound is the two heart monitors in the room. Then he hears it: a low feminine laugh. The soccer mom is perched casually on one of the room's chairs watching Dean's frantic efforts with amusement. She's taken off her hoodie and he can now see her t-shirt says "Lucky 7". Shit. He can see her six year old cowering behind the older sister's bed, watching the transformation that's come over her mother with wide, terrified eyes.

"Dean," she smiles and shakes her head, "Really. Sometimes you boys are just too easy."

"Well you know," he mutters, slowly reaching for the knife concealed in his belt, "I don't like to play hard to get."

"Sweetie you need to learn to respect your elders, and really..."Pestilence purses her lips in obvious displeasure, "you shouldn't play with knives."

Dean feels the breath knocked out of him as an unseen force picks him up like a ragdoll and slams him into the wall. The knife flies out of his grasp and skitters under the teenage girl's bed. Stars swirl in his vision, and Dean groans, but he drags himself to his feet, in time to see the horseman making her way toward Castiel. He dives for the knife under the bed, but is startled by the sound of the girl in the bed above him beginning to choke and gasp. He looks up to see Pestilence watching him arms folded.

"Darling, maybe you're not getting how this works." She snaps her fingers and the girl begins to convulse.

"Let her go," Dean growls.

Pestilence snaps again, and the girl goes still again, "This is how the game is played honey: You stay where you are and be a good sport, otherwise I collect on Hannah Montanna over there. I was going to give her another week, but you're kind of forcing my hand here sweetie. And Dean, dear, if you really piss me off," her gaze flickers to the terrified six year old still huddled in the corner, "I'll have to take the little one too. M'kay?"

She has him trapped.

His eyes flicker between the knife, the girls, and Cas. _Think. Think. Come on Dean. Now would be a really good time for one of those last minute flashes of inspiration. It always works on TV..._

Pestilence has reached Cas' side, and the horseman smiles fondly down at the angel, before setting to work. Faster than should really be possible, she rips out the IV, disconnects the heart monitor, and even removes the breathing tube considerably less than gently. The machines go absolutely ballistic, and Dean lunges for the knife.

"Hey!"

All sound stops and Dean feels himself thrust back against the wall. Pestilence glares at him, as Cas coughs and gags weakly on the bed beside her.

"Dean, if you don't mind, angel and I are having a moment here."

He feels the invisible bonds release. She's toying with him.

"Hush," she murmurs turning back to her latest play thing as Castiel draws in a ragged breath.

A weak moan escapes his lips, as she cups the angel's fever-flushed face in one hand, "Such an intricate web of power, all wrapped up in here..."

Castiel mewls weakly in protest at the touch, and Dean just about vaults the table to wrench the psychotic bitch off of him.

"Tsk," she scolds lightly, looking pointedly at the girls.

Dean restrains himself. Barely.

As her fingers soothe back through Cas' dark hair in an imitation of tenderness, she leaves heat in her wake, and Dean can actually physically see the fever worsening. Castiel shudders pitifully.

"Shhh...angel," she murmurs, "Nothing you can do about this now. I've been taking mortals into my embrace since the world began. I know you can't go back to your Father, so I'm sure you won't mind handing your soul over to me for safe keeping...I've never had an angel before."

"...nhh...Father..." Cas begs pitifully to the deity who Dean's pretty sure at this point doesn't give a shit.

"Poor, angel," she coos petting his hair, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

He makes up his mind in that split second and picks up the knife. This bitch is going down.

Suddenly though, Pestilence's expression goes from predatory to shitting bricks, as her hand, lying against Cas' forehead suddenly bursts into white hot flame. She screams and stumbles backwards.

"No! It's not possible!" she howls.

The flames rage up her arm, until she releases one final screech of fury and streams out of her host in a funnel of black smoke. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots the six year old, now standing at his side. She watches this unflinching, and he swears for a split second he sees a small sad smile cross her face, before she collapses. He scoops her up and lays her on the bed beside her sister. Both girls appear to be alive. The body of the recently possessed woman is doing Pestilence's trademark rapid decay. There's no ring on her finger, not even a wedding band.

I almost feel bad about my many cliffhangers after Kripke gave us such a cruel one this week...almost. Thanks for reading! Reviews feed the muse :)

~Amazon


	9. Retrograde Burn

_Once again, I begin by thanking people that took time out to write a review. It makes my muse a happy creature. _

_Also, holy crap! Where is Kripke hiding Cas? The suspense is killing me. After 5x18...We want some answers eh? (Oh dear, can you tell I write these intros late at night?)_

_Anyway, this chapter has some confusing fever-induced flashbacks so Italics should indicate something going on in Castiel's head. I really can't tell how clear this is so, um I apologize if this chapter is a little all over the place, but I figure it represents Cas' mindstate._

_Ok enough chit-chat, onto the disclaimer: _

_Celtic Amazon (KEL-tik - AM-uh-zon) noun, fem: an author who is not making any money from writing these fics. _

RETROGRADE BURN

_Everything is agonizing heat and turmoil. Fire guts his vessel, and he is trapped in it like a burning house with no windows and no doors. In the core of his being, there is utter chaos...and Castiel burns and burns...He wants to flee this place...break these bonds and flee but...but he has been charged with a task..._

"Dean..."

_It's a blasphemous prayer, but he calls up the only name that promises some form of relief since his brothers decided he was fit for nothing but extermination...since his Father turned his back on him...He does not know what he has done to deserve this punishment...The last time he felt such agony rip through him was under Zachariah's persuasion, under punishment for doubt and disobedience...But he fights, with all of his failing strength he fights...He has to get back...He has to come back down...Back to his charge...To this battle..._

_Until...Lucifer appears to him...stares through his soul with eyes...so familiar...He is seared by the unholy brilliance of The Morning Star...Even when Lucifer fades from view, fire and agony claim him again and again...His very being twists, writhes, tries to flee the flames..._

_Then suddenly, for the briefest moment, there is stillness. _

_The screaming, howling, burning void, pauses breathlessly, and a tiny candle flame of something else lights against his breast, and the stillness is filled with the cool soothing balm of peace. _

_Father?_

_Gradually, the suggestion of gentle rest and healing hums through him__ and exhausted, he submits...drifting awhile in blissful nothingness..._

_It does not last. _

_The claws of agony tear into him again mercilessly, wrenching him from the soft cocoon of dreamless sleep. Castiel tries to make himself as small as possible, folds in on himself inside his vessel until he becomes too small to be noticed, such an insignificant thing that these torments will ignore him..._

_But the pain drags him from the deep hole where he tries to hide, drags him back into the light and he struggles weakly, grasping for purchase, until he finds it. He finds a handhold in the unintelligible chaos of his own mind and this body, a familiar presence..._

"Michael..."

_He reaches out for something anything, and he finds his older brother. He thinks the archangel is just as likely to destroy him as help him, but he is so weak, so afraid, Michael is a guardian, a protector. It is a fact engrained upon his soul..._

"Michael...brother..."

_He barely manages the words, but maybe the archangel will be merciful, maybe he will look down on his little brother with compassion...But then the world slides dangerously, and suddenly he is losing his hold on his elder brother...his grasp slips..._

_He burns. He does not know comfort. He does not know hope. The constant of the river of fire that he floats on becomes unbearable and his last will to remain bound to this vessel is overcome by unholy pain. He blazes inside the fragile human container, reaches for freedom, for relief...And is shoved ruthlessly back down. He feels every inch of skin burning, every aching joint. He is consumed by this body and its pain. There is no Castiel, there are no angels, no heaven, no Winchesters, no existence beyond this pain. His body screams for air, for relief. He feels a touch of corruption that makes his soul roil in protest and the fires consuming him burn hotter. _

"Father..." he begs. _Father please. _

_And suddenly he ignites. His grace flares and spreads through his body like a brushfire, scouring him. It moves like a thing beyond his control, wild and aflame, purging, immolating. It is beyond anything he has ever felt, and he screams in sounds, colours, hues, he has never known, before plunging headlong into oblivion... _

A light blur...A somewhat lighter blur...and a repetitive beeping noise. Confusing, irritating stimuli vie for his attention, and he wishes only to ignore them, to sink back inside himself. There is a low threatening burn and a deep weary ache.

_Maybe it will go away..._

But the light becomes sharper, and the room clearer. _Room?_ Castiel is lying propped up on a bed, surrounded by pale curtains and machines. He does not recognize this place. Does not really understand why he is lying down in a bed in the first place, until he tries to sit up and his entire vessel protests loudly at his stupidity. A hiss of pain escapes his clenched teeth as he sinks back into the pillows behind him, and that monotonous beeping picks up in tempo for a few seconds.

After a couple of dizzying moments, the soreness dissipates and he lets his eyes flicker over his surroundings. He is alone in this room. He looks down at his left arm where a needle is protruding out, taped down to his skin. He is wearing some strange kind of...gown...and there seem to be wires coming out of the front of it, stuck underneath...

He lifts his left hand, squinting at the attached tape and gauze, curiosity for the moment, outweighing the stiff pull in his shoulder and neck that results. His eyes follow the clear line of tubing up to a machine, which he can only blink at hazily. With his fingers, he follows the wires to his chest, stopping at smooth adhesive pieces that seem to hold these wires in place. _Interesting_...He feels...indistinct. He is aware of the pain and heat still trying to consume his vessel, but it seems of lesser import for some reason...It isn't really unpleasant just....disorienting...

The adhesive on his chest is itchy, and he plucks absently at it. There is a slight pull but he removes it. The perpetual beeping suddenly stops and is replaced by a flat tone. Startled, Castiel turns to the offending machine and without thinking, raises one hand, to silence it with a tiny pulse of his grace. The noise stops, but an immediate white hot pain shoots through his temples, as if using his power has created some kind of a backlash. He feels his grace flare hot. It scalds him, tries to explode out of his grasp, and the effort it takes to suppress it has him seeing stars.

"Cas?!"

There is suddenly a low voice, close to his ear, and he feels hands close over his, gently pulling them away from where he realizes he's dug his fingers into his scalp.

"Cas, hey! Look at me," someone hisses.

He blinks rapidly, eyes watering, still more than slightly disoriented.

"Dean?"

The hunter is perched on the side of the bed, one hand braced against Castiel's back, the other still gripping one of his wrists. He shakes his head, "Man, it figures," he mutters, keeping his voice low, "I leave you alone for a grand-total of thirty seconds..." He releases Castiel's wrist, but keeps holding him steady, "You OK?" he asks.

"Yes."

It's possible that it's a lie, but the human accepts it for the time being.

"Where am I?"

He winces at the sound of his own rasping voice.

"Hospital," Dean supplies, then a little more hesitantly, "'You remember?"

Castiel swallows, "No."

Dean studies him frowning for a few seconds, then nods, "You've been here for about four days," he informs him, smiling wryly at the disconcerted expression he gets in return, "Yeah. But at least you weren't spending them drinking the worst coffee known to man." The hunter glances back over his shoulder at a noise from out in the hallway, and turns back to Castiel, expression serious again, "We had a visit from that disease-infested bitch Pestilence," he ventures watching Castiel's expression carefully.

_Unholy pain. A touch of corruption._

He shivers slightly.

"She came after you, lookin' to get hopped up on angel steroids or something, but she went up like a Fourth of July bonfire all of a sudden and took off before I could get the ring. Did you..." Dean hesitates, "It _was_ you that turned on the pyrotechnics right, Cas?"

Castiel feels his grace coiled low and restless, smouldering threateningly in a way he is not accustomed to. He remembers crying out to God, drowning in what must have been the horseman's unholy aura...he remembers suddenly being overwhelmed...

"I mean is your mojo coming back?"

_His grace flares and spreads through his body like a brushfire, scouring him. It moves like a thing beyond his control, wild and aflame, purging, immolating._

Where once his grace felt spread too thin, it now feels like any second it will burst forth and consume him, consume Dean...this room...the whole hospital...

"Cas?"

He grimaces, "I'm not sure."

Dean gives him a questioning look, but the hunter's phone chooses that moment to vibrate. He flips it open.

"Sam," Dean says looking at the screen. He sends a quick response, stows the device in his jacket, and turns to him, "Listen Cas, we're getting you out of here. The last thing we need is another round of demonic Mommie Dearest."

The reference (He's fairly certain whatever Dean's talking about has to be some sort of pop culture reference) is somewhat lost on him, but he understands the first part about leaving here, and feels a certain amount of relief.

"We've just gotta avoid nurses, and doctors and the like," the hunter explains, picking up a duffle bag from the floor beside him, "Especially your night nurse Sherry. She's a babe, but do _not_ piss that woman off." Dean opens the bag and produces a pair of cotton pyjama pants, and sets them down on the bed, "Give me your hand," he instructs.

Castiel blinks and Dean sighs, and takes hold of his wrist. The hunter carefully extracts the needle from his skin, letting the IV line drop, "Here." He places Cas' right hand over the small hole on the back of his left.

By the time Sam joins them, Castiel is free of wires and tubes, and is wearing the pyjama pants, which he is in fact thankful for, having discovered that the strange gown he was dressed in, had no back whatsoever.

"Hey Cas," Sam gives him a hesitant smile.

"Hello, Sam."

The younger Winchester approaches him warily.

"Ready?" Dean takes one of his arms and Sam goes to this other side.

Leaning on the brothers, he manages to find his feet. They make their way cautiously; every step is laborious, and Castiel realizes just how exhausted his body really is. By the time they make it into the hall, and to the elevator, he is breathing heavily. The numb feeling of what he realizes must have been painkillers, is fading rapidly. At the sudden sound of voices from down the hall, Dean swears.

"Here," he whispers to Sam, transferring all of Castiel's weight to his brother, "hold this."

Dean disappears down the hall. They can hear Dean's voice, low and conversational and an answering female voice.

After a few seconds, Sam turns to him, "How you holding up Cas?"

"I'm...holding up."

Sam is still looking at him with a fair amount of wary concern, as if he's expecting to be smote or something. _In this state_, thinks Castiel, as Sam adjusts his position to better take the angel's sagging weight, _that fear is nearly laughable_.

He's about to question the hunter about his strange reluctance to so much as look him in the eye, when they hear the sound of a yelp, and they see Dean skid around the corner across the tiled floor. Two nurses, round the corner, eyes flicking to black.

"Sam! Knife!"

Sam tosses Ruby's blade to Dean, but one of the possessed women dives at Dean, knocking him prone. The second nurse looks straight at him, and Castiel hears the creature inside the woman hiss. Sam releases him, and Castiel has to stumble back and brace himself on the wall, as Sam whips out a flask of holy water and flings the contents in the demon's face. She screams and charges at the younger Winchester blindly. Castiel watches frustratingly helpless, as the brothers grapple with the demons. When suddenly, there is a small, efficient _ding_ beside him, and the elevator opens. A middle aged doctor, with wire framed glasses steps out, and Castiel can see the hideous face of the demon lurking under the benign facade.

"And where do you think you're going?" the demon asks.

"Cas!"

He hears Sam call out the warning, but there isn't anything either of the Winchesters can do. The demon approaches him, and Castiel scrabbles against the wall for purchase. At the very least, he is going to stand up straight and look this abomination in the eye.

"Castiel right?" the demon says casually, "I'm afraid my master the horseman isn't quite done with you. She's feeling a little ironically under the weather right now, but we're under strict orders not to let a delicious little morsel like yourself out of our sight."

It's a lower class of demon, not even one of the most powerful, just a minion. There was a time, when this creature would not have dared to come this close, let alone press his luck speaking that way to him. But now, the demon reaches out and grabs him by the throat, and Castiel can do little but claw feebly at the iron grip crushing his windpipe. The demon smirks. Darkness threatens the edges of his vision.

Then he feels it. Castiel feels his grace, unfurl and flare, and the demon's laughter turns to a cry of anguish. The creature attempts to let go, but Castiel grips its arms and he feels power he hasn't felt in so long, stream out of him and blinding light fills the hallway, as he exorcises all three demons at once. The light keeps building.

"Cas!"

Dimly, he hears Dean's voice full of fear, as he revels in the feeling of his former power surrounding him again.

"Cas!!"

But the light is beginning to grow out of control. He did not intend for it to emanate so strongly or so widely and it is still trying to grow. It is becoming a destructive force trying to escape his control. He has to get it back in check. With immense willpower, he focuses on pulling the swelling, rollicking power back into himself. It scalds him, tries to rip him apart, but he forces it all back into the confines of Jimmy Novak somehow. He is somewhat aware of his body hitting the tiled floor...

When he returns to himself, Sam and Dean are half carrying, half dragging him down a poorly lit hallway. He groans at their jostling, and loses consciousness again.

When he next gains awareness, Dean is lowering him to the ground, and Sam is disappearing into an underground parking lot.

"Dean..." he rasps.

"Hey man," the hunter gives him a slight smile of relief, "Don't worry, Sam's just gonna grab the car. We're almost home free."

"...cold."

Dean frowns and shakes his head, "You're burning up Cas..."

The hunter makes to release his hold on him, but Castiel fists his hands tighter into the fabric of Dean's jacket. He feels chilled to the bone, and wearing nothing but thin pyjamas, he'd like more than anything to keep his dignity intact, but he's just so cold, and his head is still ringing from using his grace... Dean pries his hands loose.

"Dean..."

_Is that really his voice?_

"OK, OK, I heard you, hang on," the hunter mutters.

And then Dean's jacket is being wrapped around him. The hunter pulls it around his shoulders, "Better?"

Castiel manages a shaky nod.

"What the hell happened back there?" Dean asks quietly, "I thought for a second you were going to nuke us all."

He licks his dry lips, "Something appears to be... wrong with my grace."

"Something the horseman's doing?"

"No...I don't think so," Castiel shivers, "I don't know."

He can't remember (a frightening thought in itself) whether his grace was this strong before he rebelled...but it definitely wasn't this out of control. He's not certain that boosting an angel's grace lies within the power of the horseman nor what Pestilence would gain by it.

An emergency exit a few dozen feet away clangs open and two large men dressed in army fatigues burst out.

"Crap," Dean unsheathes Ruby's knife, and scrambles to his feet, placing himself between Castiel and the attacking demons.

The first possessed man dodges the blade with the reflexes of a navy seal and swings at Dean. The hunter ducks the blow, and has to slash wildly at the other demon to keep it at bay. The first demon moves to disarm him, and Dean manages to twist aside, only to be caught in a chokehold by the second demon. Castiel hears the squeal of tires, and what he dearly hopes is Sam approaching in the Impala, but the first demon lunges around Dean struggling with its partner, and grabs Castiel ruthlessly by the hair, yanking him to his knees, before cracking a fist into his jaw. He feels his grace rear up furiously, feels it crackle over his vessel's skin, and then the demon picks him up and he is airborne. A grey SUV stops his flight, as he slams into its windshield, glass shattering under him, pain flaring across his senses. The next thing he is aware of is the demon towering over him, reaching for him. He narrowly avoids the fist that crashes through the remains of the windshield where his head was seconds ago. He swings, and the demon grabs both of his wrists, pinning him ruthlessly, the thing's face close enough that he can feel its hot breath on his face. He hears the sound of a demonic screech and over the shoulder of the creature pinning him sees black smoke shoot upwards as its partner is exorcised. The momentary distraction is just enough, and he head butts his assailant hard enough to break the demon's nose and send his own vision exploding with stars. The demon reels backwards and it's almost enough time to escape, but it recovers and tosses him to the ground among the pieces of broken glass from the windshield. Castiel wraps his fingers around one of the larger pieces, and stabs it through the top of the combat boot about to strike him in the face. There's a cry of pain, and then a second more otherworldly scream as the demon is exorcised by Dean ramming the knife into its back. The body crumples next to him on the pavement, and Dean quickly reaches down and hauls him upright. He can't keep from crying out as the movement aggravates his new injuries. Dean drags him the last couple of feet to the Impala muttering a string of curses and apologies, before depositing him as carefully as he can in the back seat. Castiel's head spins as Sam hits the gas. He can feel a trickle of blood sliding sluggishly down his forehead and the shivering which he can no longer suppress is a torment to his aching body.

He drifts in and out of consciousness as Sam breaks several traffic laws, and Dean alternates between growling at him to take it easy, on the car and the angel curled up in the backseat. Eventually, they skid to a stop and the brothers jump out and haul him out as well. As they drag him up a debris-littered driveway, his head lolls limply, and for a moment, he thinks he sees a little girl perched on a broken picnic table on the front lawn, but then he is being dragged inside.

"Bathroom," Dean barks and Sam kicks aside a pile of cardboard boxes in their path.

He is set down on the floor for a moment, before both Winchesters hoist him up again, this time using a makeshift stretcher. The journey up to the second floor is a dizzying and painful ordeal, but they don't drop him. Light slices mercilessly through his pounding head, as Sam flicks a switch and he is deposited into a bathtub.

"Wha'...?" He can't figure out why he is being tossed in here.

Then a cold spray of water hits him, and he gasps and sputters, limbs too weak and uncoordinated to escape.

"Dean..." he moans the hunter's name, blinded by the water running down his face, mixing with the trickle of blood from his forehead.

"Easy, Cas."

A calloused hand pushes back his dripping hair, as another set settles on his shoulders, holding him steady.

The two shapes hovering over him are blurred and indistinct and he can't be sure whether it's the water anymore, or his own vision.

"...Cold," he manages to gasp.

"I know man," comes a voice, strained under its soothing tone, "but we gotta get the fever down."

He's so cold, and these hands won't let him go, won't let him escape this torture...Torture...Is he being tortured? ...Punished maybe?...But the demons...they're dead aren't they?...Didn't Sam and Dean get him to safety?...

A shape on the edge of his consciousness drifts into clarity, and he sees the demon Meg leaning casually against the bathroom door, arms folded, smirking at his distress.

"What's the matter, Clarence?" she purrs.

"No..." he groans. No she can't be here. It can't be real.

Two dour looking men in suits appear next to the demon, and stand beside her, arms folded. He recognizes them. They are two of his brothers. He killed them... He can feel his heart hammering, hear his own shuddering gasps for breath, as the three approach him slowly, deliberately, and these hands continue to hold him helpless against the cold and the approach of these terrifying spectres. Meg reaches out a hand, and his vision greys...fuzzes out...

The previous cold, is nothing compared to the heat that follows. When next he returns to awareness, he can feel a dry burn consuming his body. The external fever of his vessel seems to be mirrored in the ominous blazing of his grace within his exhausted body, worsening his suffering, rather than alleviating it. Every time he reaches for his healing power, it flares rebelliously, too large and out of control to be made to do as he wishes. His eyes are heavy, his lashes stuck together, and it's a struggle to open them. Once they are, he instantly regrets it. Allastair sits in a beat-up looking rattan chair, sharpening a long curved knife. Beside him, Dean stands at attention, eyes fixated on the blade, awaiting orders.

"Dean..." he rasps, but a firm, cool hand holds him down, prevents him from interfering.

Allastair winks at him, and begins humming cheerfully.

"Dean..." Castiel struggles uselessly.

All of a sudden, Joshua is standing at the foot of his bed, arms folded. He looks at Castiel pointedly.

_You must save the righteous man. It is God's command. Save Dean Winchester. _He hears the command echo in his head.

He groans weakly. He is trying. He is trying with every ounce of his failing strength to stop the scene before him. He tries to tell Joshua as much, but all that comes out, is a low, desperate moan.

Then Dean and Allastair begin to fade out of sight, and Joshua disappears as well. Now it is Zachariah standing there glaring at him.

_Disobedience. You know the penalty, Castiel._

He gasps as the raging heat around him intensifies. He is being punished for his doubt, for his impudence, his rebellion. And suddenly, the horrors of his re-education in heaven's prisons are pouring back into his body, into his psyche, and he can do little but lie there shaking as the pain engulfs him.

Sturdy hands take hold of him and Zachariah steps back, taking up Allastair's old seat in the rattan chair. Castiel struggles weakly, but he is positioned carefully against a solid form, and he feels the low rumble of the voice in the chest he is propped against, as the first soothing sensation in so long...but then he is seeing Allastair again, and Joshua. The angel and the demon lean against the wall, side-by-side watching him.

"No..." he whispers, trying to dispel them.

A cold, wet cloth presses against his burning cheek and he moans in protest not sure anymore whether he is leaning into the touch or trying to escape it. Then a gentle hand cups his jaw, coaxing it open. A small smooth tablet is placed on his tongue and he feels the cold rim of a glass pressed to his lips. The glass tips and the liquid pours down his throat, causing him to choke and sputter. He spits out the tablet, groaning. He does not want this... Just wants to curl up and sleep...

"Come on, Cas."

The ritual is repeated a few more times, but he struggles, resists, doesn't know who is trying to force things down his throat.

Finally he is released. Allastair chuckles, and the room crowds with demons. They crawl in through the windows, up through the floorboards, slither under the door...Castiel drifts, burning...

Gentle hands continue to bathe his brow, cleaning out the stinging cut there, but time seems to slow, and he has no idea how long he has been lying in this torment...Gradually, something else though, seeps into his consciousness. A fresh wholesome aroma begins to permeate the room. It seems to clear his head a little, and the various hissing, muttering, and chattering of the demons around him recedes a little into the background. He closes his eyes, just tries to breathe. He feels himself being propped up again, and this time, a warm mug is pressed to his lips, the scent of the tea in it giving off the soothing smell.

Castiel's eyes flutter open. The demons glare at him, but have become silent. Someone is coaxing him to drink, but he turns his head away fitfully.

Then he sees her. The little girl who was sitting outside the house when Sam and Dean brought him here... _Wait_...his fevered brain slowly rouses. _Sam and Dean_...

"Cas, please, come on."

The voice next to his ear is Dean...the hunter is holding him steady, pressing the warm mug to his lips.

Across the room, standing by the rattan chair, beside Allastair, Sam is frowning at his laptop. He says something to Dean, who sighs tiredly. But the little girl...she's still here...

_Drink Castiel._

Her voice is full, brimming with light and the sounds of birds in flight and silvery moonlight on water, and powerful winds echoing over snowy mountains, and rich sunlight.

He knows her...he thinks...

"Cas," Dean pleads, "Trust me. Drink it."

The little girl smiles gently at him.

He knows her...he does...

He parts his dry lips. Her name...it's on the tip of his tongue...

_Shhh..._The girl chides _Drink your tea_.

"Come on, Cas, drink up," Dean mutters.

Castiel swallows dutifully, and the girl remains watching him, smiling encouragingly, until he finishes the contents of the mug, and drifts off to sleep.

_You read it! Thank you so much! Feel free to review. Also, raise your hand if you want to know where Kripke is hiding Castiel!_

_~Amazon_


	10. Revelations

_ I'm back! Or rather the story's back, and Pestilence is back. And after last night's episode, Castiel is back too! I was so happy, I sat down and wrote like a madwoman. __As always I begin by thanking the reviewers who have fed my muse. She is one happy camper!__ Therefore, enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Ok, so Kripke thought of it first and gets all bragging rights. I just borrow his toys. If I promise to put them away when I'm done, maybe I'll get a cookie. _

REVELATIONS

In all his years of hunting, Sam has learned one valuable lesson: There is no such thing as coincidence. He frowns as he turns the little hand-printed card over in his hand:

_Ginger, Marjoram, and Tulsi Leaf Tea. Relieves headaches. Lowers fever._

They'd spent almost an hour trying to get Castiel to swallow the meds they'd swiped from the hospital to bring down the fever. They'd both tried. They'd tried coaxing, and pleading, even force feeding, which had ended with Cas nearly choking, and Dean looking guilty as hell, as he'd laid the angel back down and gone back to trying to pacify his fitful mumbling with the cold compress. Then they'd found the tea. Well more accurately, Dean had given up on the pills, after the umpteenth time of trying to get Castiel to cooperate, and sent Sam out to grab the rest of their stuff from the car.

As he'd stuffed Cas' clothes under one arm, and hoisted the remaining duffel over his opposite shoulder, he'd been startled by a small voice beside him.

"You dropped these."

A little girl with neatly braided cornrows and a yellow sundress was standing beside him holding Cas' tie and a small cloth pouch. A furtive glance up both directions of the street revealed no one else around, and Sam took the offered items, a little warily. Were parents really letting kinds wander around town alone in the middle of an epidemic? After Emmanuel, this little girl was the second kid to approach him without any sign of a parent in sight.

"Thanks," he smiled, what he hoped looked like a genuine smile, considering he was standing beside a car parked only half on the driveway of a house he and Dean had broken into, under the impression it was abandoned. "Are you all alone out here?"

The little girl had shrugged, "You're out here."

"Umm...yeah but..." Sam took a knee to be on eyelevel with the kid, "What about your mom and dad?"

"I know my way around this neighbourhood," She informed him, picking up a scooter that lay in the grass beside her, "And anyway, you dropped your tea," she added calmly, "You shouldn't lose it. Tea's good for you, especially if you're sick."

He'd looked down at the small pouch and recognized the logo from Alexandra's herbal remedies company. When he'd looked up again, the girl was gone.

His stomach does a small flip again, corresponding to the uneasy feeling he'd felt at the time. People who vanish into thin air are generally not to be trusted. But there she was, a little girl seemingly appearing out of nowhere, putting exactly what they needed into his hands, and then vanishing.

He knows that with the lingering withdrawal in his system, he'd have been able to smell any demonic blood on her.( He definitely doesn't plan on saying anything to Dean about that ability, though.) The rich, addictive smell has invaded his senses every time they've faced a demon since Famine, and every time he can just about taste the bittersweet tang of power on his tongue. But he resists. The low, screaming pit in his stomach howls, but he refuses to hear, even pretends everything's fine. He doesn't need his brother watching him like a hawk. He has this under control.

So, she wasn't a demon. She could have just been a kid... But Sam doesn't believe in coincidences.

He closes his eyes for a second, resting them. They feel gritty and irritated from the hours he's spent sitting here pouring again and again over the lore, and over Dr Shu's blog. It's incredible she's had the time to update, as frequently as she does, and it's been a pretty accurate window as to what's been going on at Monroe General. They should be there right now, hunting the horseman, but there's no way they can leave Cas alone in this state. They seriously need to regroup and figure this thing out. Although, at present, Dean's too absorbed in trying to hold together the angelic contingent of Team Free Will to be of much help in the research department.

Sam glances up. Castiel is lying on his side, still drifting in and out of consciousness, Dean carefully applying an ice pack to the worst of the bruising along the angel's back, where he got way too friendly with the windshield of that SUV. Castiel groans at the sensation, and lets out a quiet huff, trying to shift away, but Dean holds him still with one hand.

"Easy..." his brother murmurs, wincing sympathetically at the ugly bruising.

It's a mottled mess of painful looking black and blue, but it's also the kind of injury that Castiel normally heals without a second thought, the kind of blow the angel just shrugs off under normal circumstances. But right now, circumstances are anything but.

"How's the fever?" Sam asks, taking a minute to get out of the chair and stretch his legs.

Dean doesn't look up, engrossed in his task, "Better since that funky tea; still high though."

"It's too bad we don't have more."

Dean nods and sets aside the ice pack, "Yeah," he runs a carefully practiced hand over Castiel's back, feeling for breaks or fractures missed in his first hasty assessment, "And you said some kid handed it to you?"

"It fell out of Cas' jacket."

The angel flinches as Dean runs his fingers over a particularly bad spot.

"Sorry, Cas" he mutters, then pauses and looks up at his brother, "Some not-a-demon kid right?"

"She wasn't a demon," Sam confirms.

"How'd you know?"

"I splashed her with holy water," he lies.

Dean arches an eyebrow, "Subtle, Sammy."

"There was something..._off_ about her,"he says, ignoring his brother.

" 'Off' like Children of the Corn 'off'?" Dean asks, arranging the pillows to cushion the worst of Castiel's injuries.

"No," Sam walks over to the grimy window and glances out, but the yard below, and the street are empty, "More like..."

He isn't sure. It was just a weird fleeting sense when he looked at her, something instinctual. But his fingers curl reflexively around Dean's amulet now nestled in his own pocket.

"Like Touched by an Angel?" Dean persists, unconsciously gripping tighter with the protective hand resting on Castiel's shoulder.

Sam shrugs, and turns away from the window, "I don't know; maybe. But they don't usually seem to recruit kids right?"

"Shit."

Dean gets up and grabs his bowie knife from the nightstand.

"What're you doing?"

"Shit, Sammy." Dean shakes his head. "We warded against demons, but we didn't even think of the dicks with wings dropping by."

Sam jumps up and grabs his brother's wrist before he can make the customary cut in his forearm, "Because we're assuming the sigils Cas carved in our ribs are still jamming angel radar. Besides, you hit a banishing sigil in here you'll blow Cas to Oz as well."

"Damnit," Dean mutters sheathing the knife.

Their escape route for an unexpected angel appearance has always revolved around Castiel either fighting the other angels off or shazamming them out of harm's way. Neither is looking like anything approaching an option at the moment.

"Anyway," Sam reasons, "If she _was_ an angel why didn't she try to come in here, and why would she give me something to help Cas?"

"I don't know."

Dean returns grimly to the chair pulled up beside the bed.

.

Around noon, Sam loses the argument about who needs more sleep, and he finds a futon and drags it into the master bedroom. It's lucky that the house's occupants seem to have left in a rush without their furniture, maybe escaping before the quarantine was in full swing. Either that or they died recently. The second version isn't as pleasant. Although, Sam thinks, it'd kind of be just their luck if the house's occupants _were_ dead, and they were dealing with angry spirits, _and_ a horseman, _and_ demons, _and _angels. He thinks maybe his sense of humour is getting darker, before he nods off.

_He dreams he is in the hospital again. He's sitting in a chair in the waiting room, and suddenly the glass doors across the hall open and he sees a blood drive going on. The donors, men women, old young, dozens of them, are all demons. He can feel himself salivating._

Sam wakes up in a cold sweat, a rich metallic tang lingering in his mouth. It's times like these he almost misses the psychic dreams. At least they had a point to them beyond being traumatic.

He rolls over and snags the coffee cup from the floor beside him and washes his mouth out. The contents have gone cold, but at least stale, cold coffee is still better than the phantom coppery flavour.

"You alright?"

Dean is watching him, from where he sits, now perched on the edge of the bed beside Castiel. One of his hands hovers lightly over the angel's brow; the other is pressing a cool cloth against the pulse point in Cas' neck.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, m'fine," he waves his brother off. "How's Cas?" he asks, redirecting Dean's focus.

Dean sighs and shakes his head, and dips the cloth back into the bowl of water on the night stand, "His temperature's back up around 105, and it's been getting worse."

He takes one of Castiel's wrists and presses the cloth to one of the pulse points there. The angel's brow furrows, and his lips move.

"Yeah, buddy... I know," Dean mutters tiredly, removing the cloth to wet it again.

"What's he saying?"

Dean folds the facecloth and lays it across Castiel's forehead, "I don't know, Sam. I don't speak Angel," he snaps.

Sam raises an eyebrow, but keep his mouth shut. His brother, not being the sharing and caring type, tends to get irritable instead, when he's worried. Sam crosses the room and snags his duffel. Somewhere in the bottom of his bag is a collection of John Dee's writing on Enochian, with his own notes penned in the margins. It's likely that Castiel is just rambling deliriously, but while Dean goes to get more water, he settles himself in the chair beside the bed. He's careful not to touch Castiel or alert him of his presence, not much liking the idea of him thinking he's Lucifer again, and freaking out.

The angel's complexion is bloodlessly pale, save for twin high points of colour in his cheeks. His lips look swollen beyond what they were before, even with the cut there from being decked earlier by a demon. That, added to the weak, breathy quality of his voice, makes it nearly impossible to discern what the angel is saying. But he does manage to pick out a couple of words.

"...ial-pirg..."

_Burning._

"...napea..." Castiel whispers.

Sam has to look that one up.

_Two-edged...something..._

"...iad..."

He doesn't know what that one means, but the way Castiel chokes it out pleadingly makes him wince.

"Hey, Cas...It's OK..."

It's really anything but OK though, and that becomes abundantly clear when in reaction to Sam's hand resting consolingly on his shoulder, Castiel jerks awake and fixes him with glassy fever-bright eyes. They go wide and terror-filled, and Sam feels his stomach bottom out.

The next thing he knows, he's flying across the room, slamming into the far wall. It knocks the wind out of him, and _holy shit_, was that Cas who just chucked him like an oversized Frisbee?

"Sam!"

The room is filling with blinding white light. It's searing, even as he squeezes his eyes closed, and rolls over quickly to bury his head under his arms. All he can think of is Pamela, screaming as her eyes explode out of her skull. _Oh shit. Oh Shit._

And then suddenly, it's gone. He cautiously uncovers his eyes and sees Dean with both arms wrapped around Castiel's shaking frame. The angel has his head tipped down, so that his forehead rests on Dean's collarbone. One of Dean's hands clasps the nape of Castiel's neck. The other is pressed firmly over Cas', which grips tightly to Dean's left bicep, fingers fitted exactly into that eerie scarred handprint.

"It's OK...it's OK...I've got you...It's OK..." Dean repeats over and over.

Sam feels a brief flash of irony, at the image. Castiel must have held his brother with his hand in that same place as he gripped him tight and raised his soul from hell, put it back into his body, put Dean's body back together, so he could struggle back up into the world from the grave...

Gradually, Castiel stops shaking, and slumps exhaustedly against Dean. Figuring he must have passed out, Sam gets cautiously to his feet. But Dean reaches for the glass of water beside him and as he props the angel up to drink, Sam freezes. Castiel manages a few sips before turning his head away weakly, seemingly unaware of Sam's presence for the moment. It's probably best if it stays that way.

"Dean." Castiel is still gripping Dean's arm like it's the only solid thing anchoring him. It may very well be.

"Yeah," Dean smiles wryly with relief, "That's me."

His brother manages to get the angel to swallow a couple of Percocets, keeping up a steady stream of quiet reassurances.

"...Dean...it burns..."the angel declares weakly.

Dean swallows hard, and Sam is reminded of the time they were hunting that wendigo up in Alaska when he was twelve, and he broke his leg. Dad had gone for help, leaving Dean to talk him through the excruciating pain, while they waited. His brother had used the same calm voice he was now using to pacify the feverish angel.

"It's just the fever, Cas. You're sick right now, but you're gonna be OK. That's it...drink a little more water. It'll help... Don't worry man, the Percocet's gonna kick in soon..."

But Dean's eyes flicker to Sam's face, and he can read the fear in his older brother's eyes, that he's doing his best not to let bleed into his voice.

"Dean..." Castiel's knuckles go white, he grips him so tightly, "It's too much...there's too much...I can't...I can't hold it..."he rasps. "It burns..."

"Shh...hey, OK, I know..." Dean carefully, removes Cas' hand from his arm, "C'mere, Sam," he orders.

He keeps his voice low and gentle, like he's trying not to startle some kind of dangerous wild animal. Considering the fact that Cas is less than lucid, and was until recently on the verge of detonating an angel-light atom bomb, that's not far off the mark. Sam approaches cautiously, at any minute expecting to be flung into a wall again. Either that or nuked.

Cas' eyes flicker about the room hazily, until they land on him.

"...Sam."

There's actually a hint of recognition in those over-bright blue eyes, and Sam feels himself release the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"OK," Dean mutters, "take his legs. Lift on three."

Sam does as he's told, though only catches onto Dean's intent, as he leads the way into the hall towards the bathroom. Against his hands, Cas' skin is impossibly hot, and Sam almost expects to see first degree burns on his hands after, but for now, he grips the angel tightly, until Dean inclines his head towards the bath tub, and they lower Castiel, much more carefully than the first time they plunked him in here, trying to get the fever down as quick as possible with the tepid spray from the shower.

Some corner of Cas' mind must register what's about to happen, and he struggles weakly, "Nhh...wait..."

"Easy," Sam reassures him, watching as Dean shoves in the stopper and twists on the tap.

The tub slowly starts to fill with lukewarm water, and Sam carefully adjusts the angel's position, mindful of the bruising on his back, so that Castiel is leaning back supported by the side of the tub. Cas' hands grip his forearms, but the grip is weak, nothing like the white knuckled grip he had been clinging to Dean with. Still, for a second Sam wonders if Cas is trying to brand him with his handprint too, as the angel's incredibly overheated skin, burns hot and dry against his bare arms. But Castiel releases him after a second shivering, his eyes sliding closed.

"M'sorry..." the angel mumbles, barely audibly. "Sorry..."

Dean retrieves a clean facecloth and nudges Sam out of the way, to take up a position next to Cas, sitting on the tiled floor. This day is just going to get longer.

No longer of much use, to the operation of cooling down their spontaneously combusting angel, Sam's been put back on research. He pours himself a cup of instant coffee from the supply they found in the kitchen downstairs, and settles back in front of Doctor Shu's blog. Every so often the sound of Dean's voice floats down the hall, or the sound of water draining out of the tub, or filling it again, as Dean tries to keep the water temperature regulated. He's fairly certain he's heard his brother humming Metallica a few times, though he's not sure which of the two of them that's meant to calm down. He's about a week back in the blog archives at this point.

_April 18__th_

_Rumors of the impending quarantine have staff and patients alike in a panic. Every day out of my office window, I can see families packing up their minivans full of bottled water and canned goods and piling their families in to try to outrun the outbreak..._

_..._

_April 20__th_

_The quarantine is in full swing. We lost two nurses to the virus today, after six days of fighting. The funerals were small. All of their family in town were already dead..._

_..._

_April 22__nd_

_Agents from Homeland Security arrived today. I remain sceptical about any possible terrorist connection to this virus, but of course, the authorities are always keen to jump to that particular conclusion..._

_..._

When he abandons his laptop at last, closing it down, and works the kinks out of his back, he reaches for his coffee mug, but grabs the mug that previously held the medicinal tea. He gazes down at it thoughtfully. It still has a faint, earthy aroma, and his mind goes back to the little girl, replaying their conversation in his head. She'd said it was good if you were "sick"..._Had she known Castiel was sick?...but __**everyon**__e in Monroe is sick...Maybe she saw them carrying the angel inside...but they hadn't spotted her when they'd pulled up to the house_...He scrubs a hand over his face. His brain is on overdrive, the short, nightmare plagued nap from this afternoon, not having been of any real help.

Suddenly there is a loud crash, followed by the very distinct sound of a gunshot from down the hall.

"Dean?!"

He jumps up and grabs Ruby's knife.

In the hallway, a tall red-haired man stands with his back to Sam, looking down at his chest. Dean is standing facing him, on the verge of unloading another round into the intruder. The linen closet behind Dean is demolished, and Sam's guessing that's probably from having a Dean-shaped missile launched into it. _What is with supernatural entities and using them as hackey sacks?_

"Well now, that was dreadfully rude," the man scolds. He looks over his shoulder at Sam, his brown eyes so light as if to be almost eerily golden, "But I suppose one should expect such a reception from the Winchesters. The vessels of Michael and Lucifer, and," predatorily cold eyes flicker to Castiel, lying shivering and vulnerable in the bath tub, "and the rebel angel Castiel. Well, little brother, there's something different about you...that I just can't put my finger on..."

Sam sees Dean's trigger finger itching, and gives him a furtive signal to hold his fire. So one of Cas' dick brothers did show up after all. He has just the thing.

"Dean!" Sam calls out, "The stuff in the bedroom!"

He turns as if to rush in there, but before he can, the angel has reappeared inside the room, next to the table strewn with their research. Sam whips the lighter out of his pocket, and tosses it onto the ring of holy oil, lying in wait. The flames shoot up, and the angel is penned in before he realizes the deception. That angel-trapping oil is _really_ coming in handy these days.

"Dude," Dean glances briefly into the bathroom, before coming to stand beside Sam in the doorway, "Seriously? They sent an angel who falls for crap like that? What are you like from the 'special' garrison?"

"My name is Hadriel. And it's nice to see that The Vessel has a sense of humor," the now-trapped celestial muses, "Michael will like that."

"Michael's not comin' anywhere near this sweet piece of ass," Dean informs him, then pulls Sam aside. "Give me a hand with Cas. He's conked out again. Last thing I need is the guy drowning in the bathtub after all this."

They bring Castiel back to the master bedroom, because despite how infuriating it is watching Hadriel tracking their every movement with his cat-like golden gaze, the only other room has kids bunk beds in it, not an ideal place for Castiel to recuperate. The angel's skin is still far too hot to the touch, but he seems at least a little less fitful. The painkillers have him knocked out, and Sam feels grateful for small mercies. At least Cas doesn't have to be aware of his dick brother watching him like a mildly interesting National Geographic special.

"Fascinating," Hadriel contemplates, "It's burning up both his angelic essence and his vessel. Now there's a rare sight."

Sam sees a muscle in Dean's jaw jump, but he keeps his back purposefully to Hadriel, trying to make Cas as comfortable as possible, while simultaneously trying not to unload the rest of his clip into his douchebag of a brother. Apparently, this leaves Sam for interrogation duties. Hadriel's vessel is a tall well built, military type with short cropped hair and tattoos covering his forearms, and disappearing under the sleeves of his t-shirt. _One of the soldiers from the barricade maybe?_

"How did you find us?" Sam asks.

Hadriel 's mouth twitches in an almost-smile "Until I arrived," the angel informs him, "I didn't realize I would find you here."

"So what," Dean folds his arms, planting himself pointedly between Castiel's unconscious form and Hadriel, "You were in town for the world famous apple pie and you decided to stop by?"

Hadriel does Cas' head tilt, which just looks so strange and utterly wrong on the tall, tank of a man, "I sensed a large powerful entity in this town. I came to investigate."

"You mean the horseman."

Hadriel fixes Sam with what could possibly be a smirk. (Facial expressions, it would seem, are not an angelic forte.)

"No. This power was not something tainted by Lucifer."

"What kind of power was it?" Sam feels his stomach do a quick flip flop.

Hadriel looks from him to Dean, likely trying to figure out how much to reveal, "Divine power."

"Like God?"

Dean gives him a look that could strip paint.

Hadriel actually laughs at that. It sounds strange, like he's stretching his vessel's vocal chords too much to produce the sound, "Oh that's right. Castiel has been looking for our mislaid parent. It's too bad he got your hopes set so high. _God_," he scoffs, "will not be returning. No, the power I felt, it turns out, is little Castiel."

All three of them look at Cas, who at the moment is lying covered in old blankets, shivering pitifully, the wet ends of his hair dripping onto the pillow.

Hadriel turns back to them blankly expectant.

"Cas?" Dean asks incredulously.

"Yes." Hadriel sighs, and spells the rest out with the air of someone explaining the most simplistic concept to a group of first-graders. "No doubt you've noticed that Castiel is burning up like dry kindling."

"Because the horseman infected him."

Hadriel turns to Sam and favours him with a distasteful look, "Yes of course, I've noticed that. But what you primitive muck scraping primates fail to realize, is that somehow along the way, he also acquired a large amount of grace disproportionate to the amount he could ever hope to control. And of course, an angel separated from The Host, can only last so long before their grace either fizzles out, or burns completely out of control and consumes them. The latter process being escalated in Castiel's case by this power he's somehow obtained. Very interesting. A misguided attempt at a spell on someone's part?"

"We ask the questions chuckles," Dean picks up the canister of holy oil and Hadriel's eyes track it warily, as Dean handles it casually, threatening, "So if Cas is a ticking time-bomb, how do we defuse him?"

"I don't know."

"Bull."

Hadriel is still eyeing the canister warily, "I don't know."

"If Castiel is containing this huge amount of power, and there's going to be some kind of fallout, do you really wanna be trapped in the same room when that goes down?" Sam points out.

"I told you," Hadriel crosses his arms, "I don't know how to stop that from happening. Don't you think if I knew how to strip Castiel of that power I'd be eager to do so?"

"So what do we do?" Sam turns to his brother, realizing there isn't much point in trying to keep their voices low, since they're not about to leave Cas alone in the room with Hadriel.

"We keep looking for Pestilence, and we keep an eye on Carrot Top here in the mean time. He gets free, he'll be narcing on us to Michael."

The next hour is awkward. Dean keeps vigil over Castiel, while flipping through a large volume borrowed from Bobby, Sam looks through army reports fruitlessly, and Hadriel stands silently in a circle of fire that is somehow not burning a hole in the carpet. It reminds Sam of Moses and the burning bush. _The bush burned but was not consumed. _Except none of them have the beard to play Moses, and they're not trying to bring the Seven plagues on, they're just trying to stop one. Frustrated with the lack of useful information in the military records, he goes back to Dr. Shu's blog. Maybe there's something he missed...some detail that could give them an idea of where Pestilence is in the hospital now. The horseman's slippery, but if they have the element of surprise...

_April 24__th_

_We lost a brilliant oncologist today. The staff is extremely demoralized at the death of Doctor Bilson... _

...

_April 26__th_

_Rumours are spreading about more shootings going on at the army blockade. People in town are becoming incredibly desperate. It's extremely heartbreaking._

_..._

_Today_

_Humanity. Such messy, imperfect complicated creatures..._

It looks like the good doc is getting philosophical on him. He takes a sip of coffee, eyes going briefly to Hadriel, who seems to be locked in an epic staring contest with Dean. Sam continues reading:

_Perhaps I should be merciful and take the remainder of this town into my embrace and end their suffering. There are other towns, other water supplies, other hospitals to walk into, walk right by the hand sanitizers and the polite reminders to cover your mouth when coughing, and just create a beautiful, deadly, complex virus. _

Sam freezes. He goes back. Reads it again.

"Holy shit."

'What?" Dean doesn't take his eyes off of Hadriel.

"I think I just found Pestilence."

Oh wow! You read it :D Um and if you're the type that leaves/has left reviews, well then that just makes you just that extra bit shiner doesn't it?

~Amazon


	11. Role Reversal Redux

_Sorry for the delay, but as I get down to the end of this fic, I'm reminded how hard it is to write satisfying endings. So, I've done my best here. This is a throw-back to the first chapter of the story, just in case the title wasn't enough of a give away...Hope you enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural or Castiel in any way, there would probably have been a lot more time for sweet Dean&Cas moments. As is, I just borrow these lovely toys and play for fun (not profit)._

**ROLE REVERSAL REDUX**

In all his years of hunting, Dean has learned one valuable lesson: splitting up is always a bad idea. This is especially true, when it seems like a good one.

"Look, we don't have a choice."

"Sam, forget it! I'm not-" Dean notices Hadriel watching him quizzically, and lowers his voice."I'm not letting you go after that son of a bitch alone," he hisses.

Sam casts a glance back over his shoulder into the room, but the red-headed angel has gone back to watching Castiel with detached interest.

"Dean, Pestilence is getting more and more powerful, and we're running out of time. This might be our last chance to take him down."

"Then we do it together."

"Dean-"

"Sam, c'mon!" Again, he has to remember to keep his voice low. "You don't think this whole thing has 'trap' written all over it?"

Sam pulls a bitchface of epic proportions, "So you're saying what? It makes more sense for _both_ of us to walk into a possible trap?"

"I'm saying we find somewhere safe to stash Cas for the time being. We can leave GI Joe where he is. He's not going anywhere anytime soon. And you and me, we go the hospital and gank Pestilence."

"You're forgetting something," Sam points out.

"What?"

"Cas' recent imitations of a super nova. Dean, even if we kill the horseman, Cas is still packing way too much grace."

"According to Ronald McDonald over there."

Sam shakes his head, "Yeah, but it kind of makes sense. And if he is telling the truth, we might waste Pestilence only to have Cas accidentally nuke the town. One of us needs to stay here and see what else we can get out of Hadriel, so we can keep that from happening."

"Okay, then you stay here; I'll go after that bitch Pestilence."

His little brother lets out an exasperated sigh, "Look:"

_Oh, crap_. The kid's pulling out the puppy eyes, and adopting that 'let me reason with you voice.' Something colossally stupid is about to come out of his little brother's mouth.

"Lucifer's not about to let his vessel get damaged."

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Sam ratchets up the pleading look, and Dean keeps his mouth shut.

"The horseman's not going to risk pissing him off by killing me. It makes more sense: If one of us is going to go up against Pestilence alone, it has to be me." Sam smiles grimy, "Besides, Cas and I don't have a great track record." He shakes his head, and his voice softens, "Look man, you're keeping him grounded. Cas is going to hang on because of you. He needs _you_. I have to be the one to go."

In the end, Dean gives in. He can see a juiced up Sam high on demon blood, getting jerked around by Famine replaying in his mind, but he hands Sam the keys to the Impala. The horsemen are some tricky sons of bitches, and the thought of his little brother going alone to face any of Lucifer's pep squad dgoes against everything in him, but there just aren't a hell of a lot of other options available to them. He watches from the window as the Impala peels away from the curb and disappears out of view.

A low desperate moan brings his attention back to Cas. The celestial's fingers are curling and uncurling feebly on the bedspread, his sweat beaded brow furrowed in pain; the drugs aren't keeping him under anymore. Dean glares meaningfully at the hulking angel still trapped in the fiery ring, and crosses back to the bed. Cas tosses restlessly getting tangled in the thin blankets, and when the feverish angel cries out hoarsely in Enochian, Dean winces.

"Father isn't coming."

Dean starts at the sound of Hadriel's voice.

"Don't waste your breath little brother," the angel mutters bitterly. "He stopped caring a long time ago."

"Why don't you shut your cake hole," Dean growls, splaying one gently restraining hand across Cas' chest, and rearranging the blankets with the other.

"Or you'll do what?" Hadriel rumbles, "Start the apocalypse? Free Lucifer? Begin a war that will get hundreds of my brothers and sisters killed?"

There's a hint of something beyond the usual angelic condescension in that statement, and Dean looks back at the angel surprised. But Hadriel's face is as expressionless as ever. He must have imagined it.

"Or I'll douse you in the rest of this here super-special oil and have myself an angel barbeque."

Hadriel bores into him with those freaky golden eyes, for a few seconds, before turning away silently.

Dean goes back to getting Cas disentangled from the sheets. It isn't an easy task, with the agitated angel tossing and turning fitfully.

"Dean..." Cas rasps.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm here," he soothes, smoothing the covers down.

Cas pulls in a shuddering gasp, and Sam's laptop in the corner sparks and begins to spew acrid smelling smoke. _Should any of them make it out of this in one piece, there's going to be a monumental bitchface in store for them_, Dean thinks wryly.

Cas shudders.

"God commands...it...save...the righteous man...Dean Winchester...."

The glass globe covering the light fixture overhead begins to rattle threateningly.

"No, no, hey," Dean grips the angel's shoulders firmly, "Easy, Cas. It's OK, I'm right here, pal. You already did that. I'm saved."

He hears the sparking overhead, and has to throw his body over Cas, as the glass explodes, and the shards rain down on top of them.

"Shit! Jesus, Cas!" he curses sheltering the angel as best he can.

He stays there, for a few seconds. He can feel the heat radiating off of his friend like asphalt in summer. Slowly, he pulls himself away, brushing the glass off of his back, and out of his hair. Cas shivers, and curls feebly into the foetal position.

"He suffers greatly," Hadriel murmurs.

Dean whips around, and barely manages to restrain himself from picking up his gun, just for the pleasure of putting a bullet between Hadriel's eyes.

"What are you; the angel of stating the obvious?"

"No."

Dean carefully sweeps the last of the stray shards off of the bed.

"They don't teach sarcasm in heaven do they?"

"Such a sad sight," Hadriel continues ignoring him, "A warrior of The Host, reduced to this: suffering unspeakably with nothing but a scum scraping ape to care for him."

"If you're so broken up about it," Dean glowers at him, "Why don't you do something to help him?"

Hadriel shrugs, "Even if I heal the sickness, it would do nothing to alleviate the damage his grace is doing. Besides, you would have to let me out of this circle, something I suspect you are not going to do."

"No."

"Then I suppose we are at an impasse."

"Guess so."

A sudden crack of thunder makes Dean start and turn to the window. Outside, rain begins to fall in sheets, and lightening splits the sky. Sam must be at the hospital by now...maybe fighting off stunt demons 12 and 13...maybe his brother's already found the horseman...When he turns back to Hadriel, the angel is watching him.

"That you throwing a hissy fit?" he asks, looking back out at the rain pounding the street.

"No."

" 'No' it's not you doing it, or 'no' it's not you throwing a hissy fit?"

Hadriel doesn't answer.

Dean goes back to the bedside, and takes up his seat beside Cas, soaking a fresh washcloth and pressing it to the angel's overheated skin.

"What if Lucifer's waiting for your brother?"

Dean pauses.

"Doesn't matter; Sam's not stupid enough to say 'yes'."

He doesn't look at Hadriel. If the angel wants to draw him into this game; fine. If it gets him talking, maybe he can get some useful information out of him. Of course, that means being able to put up with the winged dick long enough to not douse him with the remaining holy oil, like he's been threatening. It's going to be no small feat, considering Hadriel's just demonstrated he has a pretty good idea what buttons to press.

"He was foolish enough to listen to that demon Ruby, foolish enough to fall right into Lilith's hands...Your brother doomed the world, Dean. Your faith in his good judgement seems unfounded to me."

Lightning flickers and Hadriel glances out the window, watching the storm. Determinedly, Dean bites back the suggestion about exactly where Hadriel can shove it, and goes back to tending to Cas.

" Unlike your brothers," he says, keeping his voice even, "mine gives a crap about humanity."

The wind howls and shakes the house, but Hadriel remains silent.

Beside him, Cas' breaths are coming short and painful. Dean places a hand on his back, careful to avoid the worst of the bruising, and rubs light circles, the way he used to do for Sam when he was a little kid, sick from the flu, or waking up from a nightmare.

"Breathe, Cas," he reminds the angel, guiding him back into the pillows, trying to get him in a position where he'll be able to get more air into his straining lungs.

"Part of me almost hopes Lucifer will be the victor."

"It's OK, I've got you," Dean soothes bending all of his willpower to ignoring Hadriel until he gets Cas settled.

"Michael only plans to kill half of humanity. Lucifer would see to it that your species, which is nothing but a blight, upon the earth would be utterly destroyed."

Castiel groans and the windows rattle violently. Dean finds the tightly corded muscles of the angel's neck and massages gently.

"Easy, Cas...easy, now..."

"After all," Hadriel continues, "it would be no less than you deserve. You're little better than savage animals, killing each other, destroying your planet..."

Cas gives a soft whimper of pain.

"...As you sow, so shall you reap."

Suddenly, the room is filled with a deafening noise, as a blast of Cas' true voice rips through the house, shattering glass, decimating windows, and making Dean drop to the floor, hands clamped over his ears. He feels an iron grip close around his throat, and suddenly he is lifted a good foot of the ground, and brought nose to nose with Hadriel, the celestial's golden eyes glittering fiercely.

"Hadriel, angel of storms, Dean Winchester." The massive angel rumbles," Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Black spots dance in front of Dean's vision as he fights for air.

"Perhaps I should kill you, before I take you to Michael. It might make for easier transport."

The crippling noise of Cas' scream (because holy shit, what else could it have been?) is gone, and the ring of holy fire appears to have been put out by the rain now lashing in from the shattered window. Although, Dean's a little more concerned with the fact that The Incredible Hulk of angels is currently squeezing the life out of him.

"As much as I would like to see humanity reduced to little more than a messy smear on the earth's face, I am a good soldier. And I have my orders. It is time to-"

That sentence never gets finished, because a silver blade pierces through Hadriel's throat, and golden eyes go wide, as the angel explodes into white light. The body of Hadriel's host topples to the floor, giant hand locked around Dean's throat going lax at last, and Dean rolls away, choking and gasping lying in the massive outline of charred wings. When he's finally able to look up, he sees Cas, standing with his sword covered in fresh blood. The renegade angel is staring at the blackened floor, with glassy eyes, swaying dangerously, but somehow standing on his own.

"Holy, shit." Dean croaks, jumping to his feet, as Cas practically collapses into his arms."Cas?" he ventues.

Hazy blue eyes find him after a few seconds, and a weak cough jars the angel's frame before Cas murmurs, "...have to...save the righteous man..."

"You did, buddy," Dean assures him, lowering him to the floor. _Holy shit, the holy tax accountant is definitely made of stronger stuff._ "You did good."

Whatever strength just allowed Cas to miraculously ice Hadriel, seems to have left him, and he lies shivering weakly, as Dean salvages a somewhat dry blanket from the bed, and wraps the angel up carefully.

"Okay," he huffs, slinging one of Cas' arms across his shoulders and gripping the angel tightly under the knees, we've gotta find somewhere dry."

"Sorry," Cas breathes, eyes sliding closed.

He doesn't bother to ask, for what. The son of a bitch is deceptively heavy for a little guy, then again, Dean's not usually in the practice of carrying full grown men bridal style down flights of stairs. He alternates between narrowly avoiding whacking Cas' head, and the angel's bare feet on the wall and banister, but they make it down, Dean panting hard.

At last, he finds that the living room is relatively dry, and he deposits Cas on the couch as carefully as he can.

"Thank you," the angel whispers, without opening his eyes.

"Oh yeah," Dean mutters, retrieving a drier blanket and spreading it over the angel, "That's me; knight in shining armour."

He thinks the angel smiles, but it could equally be a grimace, in the pale face.

"'Course you're not much of a damsel either."

Definitely a faint smile this time. Blue eyes peel open slowly, and Cas looks at him.

"Hey," Dean ventures.

"Hey," Cas whispers. A frown deepens the lines of pain in his face, as he looks down at one of his hands, curled on the blanket beside him, "Blood..." he rasps.

Cas' right hand is decorated with drying arterial spray.

"Yeah, uh...Here, I'll grab some water and..." Dean gets up and heads toward the kitchen, "You should drink a little too..."

"Dean?"

"Just going to the kitchen, Cas. Be right back."

He gets the angel cleaned up, and manages to get him to swallow a little water, before unconsciousness and exhaustion take him again. Dean sits heavily on the edge of the coffee table and pulls his cell out of his pocket. No missed calls. No messages. But it's not like he's expecting Sam to text him mid-hunt.

_Hey sam wutz up?_

_Killed pestilence. team free will ftw._

Yeah, definitely dreaming in Technicolor now.

But with Hadriel dead...Dean watches the shallow, but steady rise and fall of Castiel's chest... Sam needs his help. Cas would understand... The house is well-warded against demons, and if the angels already knew Hadriel just bought the farm, they'd have sent someone by now...

Making up his mind, he grabs his coat and weapons, and fills a mug of water, placing it within reach of Cas should he wake up. He checks the angel's vitals, and sighs, no worse, no better.

"Won't be long," he mutters.

He's halfway to the door, when Cas gives a plaintive moan. Dean stops in his tracks. _Shit_. This was a whole hell of a lot easier when he only had one person depending on him. But it's not just him and Sam now, and it's probably the first time it really hits him. But he knows; he knows, just like that time he left Cas in that motel room after doing the time warp...family first. He has to go to Sammy. He's made his decision. His hand is on the doorknob, when something very different, changes that decision for him.

A brilliant light flares up inside the house, and he knows it can only be coming from one source.

"Cas!"

Light is leaking out from under the angel's tightly closed lids.

Dean bangs his knee hard on the coffee table on the way down, but he's by the angel's side instantly. _Not good. Not good..._

"Cas you sunnuva bitch don't you dare!"

Before he can give it much thought, he takes the angel's hand and clamps it over the marking on his shoulder. The light starts to seep out from Cas' lips, now dazzling in the dim house, but Dean hangs on, because Cas is either about to explode like a dying star, or ditch his meat suit. Neither is a good option.

"You feel that you feather brained bastard?" he growls, digging the trembling fingers into his shoulder, "You put that there. You gripped me tight and you raised me from perdition, and you held on so tight you burned your freakin' hand print into my arm, Cas; so I know you're strong. You're one baddass angel of The Lord, and you're the only one I've got, so you don't get to bail on me! You hear me!"

Dean swears he doesn't breathe for what feels like an eternity, until Cas shudders violently, and abruptly the light absorbs back into the angel's vessel, back into Jimmy. A shaky exhale is accompanied by Cas' eyes opening to half mast, hazy and fever bright.

"...demons...demons coming..."

They slide closed again, and the angel lies shivering, as the sweat beads out across his pale skin.

"Damnit, Cas." Dean slumps against the sofa.

He sits and waits for his own heart to stop hammering before he drags himself to his feet and goes back to the kitchen for more water and a clean rag. He lights a couple candles, the power he discovers went out some time during the storm. Cas moans pitifully as the cool cloth descends on his brow, and Dean carefully wipes away the perspiration and a few flecks of blood from the angel's lips. _God, he's a mess._

"Easy, Cas. It's OK. It's OK, Cas..."

"No..." the angel moans breathily.

"Hey, hey, shh..." Dean is brought back to sitting with a sick Sammy, when they were both just kids, and he felt as scared as he did protective.

"No,no, no..." Cas pleads brokenly, and Dean grips his shoulder gently.

"Cas..."

The angel whimpers, and Dean winces at the sound.

"Cas?"

Castiel's eyes flicker open, wild with pain and fear, and Dean cups his face gently with both hands, trying to get the angel to focus on him, "Easy, hey..."

"...Dean..."

He searches Cas' eyes for the recognition he's looking for, "You were dreaming. I mean...it was a dream right? Not some freaky angel psychic thing?"

Cas continues to stare up at him blearily.

"Cas?" he pats the angel's cheek, "You with me?" He mutters, checking his pulse.

The heart beat under his fingers is pounding rapidly, but Cas gives a slow, dream-like nod. He frowns and takes the cold compress from Cas' brow and runs it down the angel's neck before soaking it again.

"Dude, you were seriously freakin' out for a while there."

Castiel shivers, a slight groan escaping his dry lips.

"Easy, man," Dean returns the cool cloth to his brow and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. Cas inhales sharply, and Dean feels the muscle rigid and trembling under his palm. "it's Ok Cas," he murmurs, massaging gently.

Cas' fearful eyes go wider, and the angel chokes out weak gasp.

"Cas?"

He brings his other hand up to rest over his friend's brow, trying to get through to him, to let him know he's safe.

Then he hears it. The front door clicks and creaks open.

_Sam? _

A pretty, petite Asian woman in a white lab coat stands there smiling.

"Hello, Dean. Hello, angel."

_Not Sam. Pestilence._

Dean snatches his gun from the coffee table. It's not going to do much against the horseman, but it's all he has.

"Oh, Dean," she purrs, "Do we really need to go through this? That's not going to work on me."

He fires a round of silver into her chest anyway, because there just aren't a whole lot of other options at the moment. And if she's here...where the hell is Sam?

She glances down at the bullet holes, and back up at him, as they begin to heal. "You're probably wondering where your baby brother is," she continues, not missing a beat.

_Well, it was worth a shot._

"And let me guess..." he summons up a cocky smile from God knows where, "You're about to say something about how he's already dead, or whatever else they teach you to say at bad-guy-of-the-week community college. But you can can the act because I know Lucifer's not about to let you put any scratches on his prize."

Pestilence's pretty lips turn down into an exaggerated pout, "No, I'm not supposed to kill little Sammy, but that doesn't mean I didn't leave him puking up his own liquefied internal organs all over the floor, just waiting for Lucifer to come and fix him up. A simple 'yes' is all it would take." She smiles as she begins to walk towards him, "But that's neither here nor there. I'm here to collect my prize...my very own angel...enough power to keep me going for a _very_ long time."

Dean raises his gun, and plants himself in front of Cas, "Over my dead body."

It's probably a poor choice of words, he realizes as the gun flies out of his hands, and Pestilence strikes him hard across the face with it. He hits the floor hard, blood pouring out of his nose, stars obscuring his vision. A petite foot hits him hard in the ribs, and he feels bones crack, before he's rolled roughly onto his back. Pestilence strikes him hard again, snapping his head back the other way, before straddling him and grabbing one of his wrists.

"Dean, sweetie,' she purrs, "I think it's time we take away that unfair advantage of yours, hm?"

He feels bones grind together as she crushes his wrist, and slips War's ring from his finger. Instantly, a buzzing invades his ears, and he feels blood bubble up in his throat, as his stomach cramps. Pestilence releases him, and he rolls over on his side and coughs up blood.

"There," Pestilence smiles, "Much better." She perches on the edge of the coffee table and looks down at Cas, who rolls over weakly and groans as he spews all over the carpet.

"Poor, angel," the horseman croons, narrowly avoiding the blood and vomit that almost coats her shoes.

All of a sudden, Dean hears a familiar rumble over the sound of the storm outside. The Impala. _Baby, _he thinks_, am I glad to hear you. _

The front door bursts open again and Sam stumbles in, slamming it closed and grabbing the large cabinet nearby. He drags it in front of the door. Not having caught sight of the scene playing out in the living room yet.

"Dean! Dean, there are like two hundred demons out there! Everyone in the hospital, Pestilence possessed them all! You have to-"

The younger Winchester finally stops, as he catches sight of Pestilence sitting coyly on the coffee table in the next room, and his brother collapsed on the carpet, coughing up blood.

"Oops, guess I lied." She winks at Dean, and turns to the younger hunter."Hello Sammy."

Sam whips out Ruby's knife, and the horseman's eyes narrow.

_Yes. Holy shit, finally something goes their way. _

But suddenly, Sam doubles over and chokes out a thick stream of blood.

"What...the...hell..." Dean gasps, "Where's...your...ring...?"

Sam hurls and groans, "...massive...demon army....took it...you?"

"Sorry boys," Pestilence chuckles, "But those didn't belong to you anyway."

She turns back to Castiel, and cups his face in her hands, taking the cloth to wipe his chin gently. The angel's eyes are squeezed shut, his breath coming in wheezing gasps.

"I'll just take angel here, and then you can be next Dean; Sam unfortunately, has other things to attend to. But I promise you can watch Sammy." She looks down at Castiel fondly, and pets his hair absently as she speaks, "Alright angel, it's time to put an end to your suffering."

She places a gentle kiss on Cas' forehead, and the angel arches off the couch, a pure burst of angel voice shattering the air. Pestilence stumbles back, and the hunters clap their hands over their ears. Blinding white light begins to fill the room, and Pestilence shrieks furiously, and grabs Castiel's chin in her hand, digging her nails into his jaw.

"Enough," she hisses.

The light falters, and Cas chokes weakly, eyes running wildly about the room, searching for something...suddenly his eyes light on a seemingly empty corner of the room.

"Father..."

The light intensifies tenfold and Dean dives clumsily to protect Sam, as the world disappears in searing white brilliance. An incredible howling chorus goes up outside from the demon army on the doorstep.

"Dean."

He hears the word clear as a bell in his head, and looks up, before he can think about the light possibly burning his eyeballs out. But it doesn't. Instead, he sees Castiel standing with one hand pressed against the horseman's forehead. Cas' eyes meet his inside the vortex of pure brilliance and he understands. He grabs Ruby's knife off the floor and slices off the horseman's ring finger. She shrieks as the light thickens creating a whiteout like they're in the middle of a snow storm, and before Dean blacks out, he hears a corresponding scream, that makes him feel like his bones are liquefying, like he's being dragged back through every single layer of hell again, and the angelic choir is singing in his veins.

He wakes up two days later in the hospital, his ears still ringing. Sam is dozing, in a nearby chair, long limbs scrunched in a contortionist act. Dean feels like shit, but he's alive, and so is Sam. He notices a chain around Sam's neck, with three rings attached. War. Famine. Pestilence.

Sam stirs and opens his eyes groggily, "Hey, man. How're you feelin'?"

"Like I got hit by a bus. You?"

"I'm good," Sam smiles tiredly, "Pestilence's voodoo wore off as soon as she was destroyed. The broken ribs, and sprained wrist she gave you on the other hand, are a souvenir."

"Lucky me." Dean winces as he manages to sit up. _Sitting up with broken ribs_...Painkillers are awesome.

Sam looks down at his hands in his lap, and Dean sees this one coming a mile away. His brother's gearing up for a chick flick moment...either that or..._Oh God_.

"Cas?"

Sam hesitates, before getting up and carefully pulling back the privacy curtain around the bed next to him. Cas is lying there hooked up to a ventilator. Looking like death warmed over. He's completely still, in a way that's utterly wrong. Not that the fitful fever dreams were something Dean enjoyed, but at least when Cas was thrashing around deliriously, he didn't look like a dead thing, with only the forced in and out of machines keeping him alive.

"But..." he struggles out of bed, ignoring Sam's protests, "We wasted that demonic bitch...Why is he still sick?"

"Dean..." his brother's voice is gentle, and Dean is overcome by the urge to punch him. "Whatever Cas did that wiped out the demons in town, whatever happened with that light show he put on...I don't know...it must have damaged him..."

He swallows and steels himself, "How bad?"

"Dean..." Sam hesitates.

"Sam!"

"The doctor's say he's brain dead Dean. Those machines are the only thing keeping him alive."

"But how can...that doesn't make sense..."

"Honestly..." Sam guides him into the chair next to the bed, "Man, I don't even know if Cas is still in there. This might just be Jimmy; or no one. Dean, Hadriel said that extra grace could burn Cas up. Maybe..." his brother trails off.

"Cas?" Dean lays a tentative hand over the brow of the unconscious figure.

But the pale form lying on the sterile sheets, while machines breathe for him, isn't revealing anything.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_Thanks for reading! There's one more chapter to go, in which more gets explained and I wrap things up as neatly as I can, considering my muse seems to take so much glee in writing cliff hangers._

_Thanks to all readers and reviewers of this one, you guys make it fun to write this thing, knowing people are getting a kick out of it._

_~Amazon_


	12. Rebirth

_Hi! Oh wow, if you're here at this TWELFTH chapter thank you!_

_I really enjoyed writing this, and could probably easily fall into continuing in this AU._

_Disclaimer: Once again, checked everywhere, and no sign of renegade angels or hunters either in my bed or under it. No piles of money being made from this fic either. I hang my head in melodramatic defeat. _

**REBIRTH **

Nothingness. There is nothing. Like the old religions of The Great Mother, destruction leads only to a gentle floating oblivion, returned to the womb of creation. There is no pain. There is no weariness, no burning heat, no fear or worries about the self or any other. There is no loneliness, no loss, and no sense of painful isolation. There is only the soothing comfort of wanting for nothing, and feeling nothing.

_Castiel._

A name, an identity, a designation given to some created form is whispered. It glints there in the darkness of all-encompassing silence. It floats on The River Lethe, a tiny blue flame in the deepest of voids.

_Castiel._

The susurration travels through the nihility of this place rippling the still waters of forgetfulness, forming, stirring... Timeless, immortal hands disturb the inscrutable waters, gently coax the little spark, sing to it, blow on it ever so gently, aware of its fragility. Gently...so gently...

_Castiel..._

Suddenly:

**Bright-painful-light-noise-pain-fear-confusion-Can't breathe-drowning-fear-pain-fear-please-**

Ripped from the dark womb of nothingness, life is bestowed like a cruel barrage. He _is_. He_ is_ again. He is Castiel. He is here and now and choking, gagging around an unfamiliar intrusion, when all he wants to do is draw breath. His heart is hammering hard and fast and he does not know where he is. Alarms are sounding all around him and unfamiliar people rush into the room. Someone is speaking to him, but he can't hear them over the screaming pitch of his own panic, as he tries to flee from this prison of flesh and finds he cannot. Firm hands hold him down and he feels terror bloom deep in the animalistic pit of his human body.

A sudden rush of drugs hazes over the panic. Obscures it, and the room drifts... He can feel moisture leaking out of the corners of his eyes...a gentle calloused hand over his brow...a much smaller, softer hand slips into his palm at some point, and he feels small fingers curl and squeeze comfortingly...Eventually, he sleeps.

Tumult. He is trapped afloat in a raging ocean. Every time he struggles to the surface, to wakefulness, he is swiftly dragged back under... He cannot make sense of the whirling thoughts and information his human senses are flooding into his brain. It is too much... He chokes as the horrible intrusion in his throat is removed and he struggles through the first breaths on his own...A deep, soothing voice...Anchoring hands...he grasps at where his grace should be and feels cold dead space...He cries out in pain and despair...more soothing words...drugs again...He drifts down into the silent fog...

.

Opening his eyes has never been such a monumental task, but Castiel determinedly drags himself to awareness despite the inviting pull of drugs and exhaustion. He pulls in a breath, grateful to be doing so on his own again, but he feels incomprehensibly heavy and earthbound. Jimmy's limbs- no, _his_ limbs, refuse to move, to obey even the slightest command. His previous conceptions of what weariness is were apparently laughably naive. He feels hollowed out, feels vital pieces of himself missing.

As his eyes adjust to the pale sunlight filtering into the hospital room, they fall on the sleeping forms in the chair next to the bed where he lies. Dean is passed out in the hard, plasticized chair, with a little girl with dark hair curled up, asleep on his lap. Their breaths rise and fall together, the very picture of stillness and peace. Dean shifts restlessly, and then Castiel is looking into eyes, he knows even better than Jimmy's.

"Cas."

His mouth is too dry to respond and his throat feels like it's lined with sandpaper. He winces.

"Cas? It is _you_ right? I mean..."

He succeeds in a small nod, and sees relief flood his charge's features.

"Hang on man..." Dean mutters, carefully extricating himself from the little, sleeping figure lying across his chest, settling her in the chair, against his jacket and a pillow.

The hunter offers him a few ice chips, which Castiel accepts with gratitude, slowly letting them melt in his mouth as he's instructed. They offer cool relief, as Dean pulls up a second chair and sits at his side. It reminds him of when their positions were reversed, when he sat at Dean's bedside after Uriel's death, after Allastair's destruction. Then, he had looked at the human and had been reminded just how fragile his charge was. Dean didn't have grace to draw on to heal himself, to protect himself...

"Hey," a hand descends on his shoulder, "You still with me?"

"Yes," he manages.

"You scared the crap outta me man," the hunter mutters," Seriously." Dean glances briefly at the little girl, still asleep in the chair. She doesn't stir, and he turns back to Castiel, "I mean, it's been almost a week since you nuked Pestilence, and I wasn't sure if you were even in there anymore. I was beginning to think you were dead, or vacated, or I don't know," the hunter gives a tense laugh, "got fed up with being pummelled by Heaven and Hell's cronies. Y'know went off to Tijauna or something..."

"I had no intention of leaving you."

There is silence for a moment. Dean swallows.

"Yeah, well...good." The hunter clears his throat, scrubs a hand over his face, and breaks eye contact. "Alexandra came by yesterday with her kid," he says, after a moment, motioning to the little girl on the chair. He shakes his head. "Kid was chatting away to you in some geek language Sam was all excited about; apparently there are a couple of dead languages even Sam doesn't speak; and you just woke up. I mean I didn't know if your mojo was back or if it was even you, since you know you were still so out of it...But she was convinced it was you."

Castiel looks at the little girl napping contentedly. He hears the voice echoing in his mind again: _Castiel_; calling him back from oblivion. He heard it in the throes of fever, heard it when the little girl in his dream told him to drink the tea, just before he let his grace explode out of this fragile human vessel...

"Cas? You OK?"

His mouth is dry again instantly, as the little girl, stirs and yawns, sitting up. She looks directly at him and beams.

"Hi."

He blinks. There is nothing in those dark eyes but childish innocence and youth. _Foolish_. What had he been expecting?

"Cas?"

"I'm fine," he mutters.

The voice, like a dream, fades.

The girl hops off the chair and scoots up to a nearby table where a small tray of half-finished pie is sitting. She grabs a fork and munches away. Moments later, a tall red-haired woman, he recognizes as the witch Alexandra, the little girl, Amira's, mother, appears at the door to the room.

"Mom!"

Alexandra smiles, "Hi," She looks at Castiel, and even as she thanks him for destroying the horseman and effectively saving her mother, wishes him well, he feels her grey eyes penetrating the surface of him, seeing how deep the damage genuinely goes. They fill with warmth and sympathy, but she doesn't comment.

"Amira," she tells her daughter, "Come on, we have to get going. Say bye to Dean and Castiel."

The little girl sighs, "OK."

She wraps her skinny arms around Dean, in a quick hug, obviously having taken a liking to the hunter, and leans in to give Castiel a quick parting kiss on the cheek, blushing immediately and scurrying to her mother who bundles her out the door with a chuckle and a wave. Castiel watches them go, mother and daughter, parent and child, and feels emptiness.

He cannot hear the angelic chorus. He cannot feel the presence of his brethren, the once all-pervasive love of his father.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean sits again in the chair, "Are you sure you're OK?"

He isn't. He has been burned, beaten, filled with scalding holy fire, and misled by ghosts of his own foolish faith, to trust in his own wishful thinking that his father has been here, has guided him in any of this. His return from the void has left him emptied. He can't feel his grace, his wings, any of that which makes him what he is. He trusted that God was there to catch him if he took that leap of faith, but he has been allowed to fall. There's no choice now but to be honest.

"No."

Dean shifts so that he catches Castiel's eyes, even as the angel tries to look away, "Does it have something to do with why your angel mojo hasn't healed you completely?"

"Yes," he concedes quietly.

"So," the hunter searches his face, "When you blew Pestilence to hell, it didn't fix what was going on with your grace? Which, man," Dean shakes his head, "How _did_ you OD on mojo in the first place?"

"No, to the first question," he winces as his throat gets progressively drier again, "I don't know the answer to the second."

Dean's eyes widen, "You still in danger of going up like a bonfire then?"

Castiel feels a bitter laugh rise in his throat, "My problem is exactly the opposite. I couldn't burn out of control even if I wanted to. I'm completely drained. I can't heal myself, I can't do anything Dean, I'm..."

The weariness presses in on him with renewed force. The hunter is silent, watching him, until understanding slowly dawns on the man.

"Human," he breathes.

Castiel swallows and looks away.

Dean sits back in the chair, taking the new information in. "...I'm sorry."

The silence is heavy. Dean unsure of how to console someone who has basically now lost absolutely everything , even his own identity, and Castiel, steels himself for what he knows must necessarily come next.

"I'm grateful for..." Castiel licks his chapped lips, searching out the words he knows he has to say, but can't help feeling selfishly reluctant to. "For the assistance you've given me, for your staying with me here. But I know you want to move on to the next battle...to find the next horseman..."

"Cas..."

He ploughs ahead, "I realize I'm not as much use to you in this fight anymore."

"Cas-"

"And I would understand if you...wished to move on. I can stay here and convalesce-"

"Cas, would you shut up."

He looks up into his charge's eyes, momentarily stunned.

"Jesus, Cas," the hunter shakes his head in disbelief, "You think I'd just up and leave you here alone in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot?" He sighs at the angel's confused frown at his attempt at levity, "Look, you said you weren't gonna leave me, and chick flick moment or not, I'm not about to return the favour by abandoning you. Dude, I can pretty much guess what your dick brothers would do in a situation like this, but you're forgetting one, pretty important little detail here: I'm not one of them. You're my friend, man. I mean Cas, just because you lost your mojo doesn't mean I'm gonna toss you on the scrap heap. And yeah, I wanna go after the last horseman, but I'm doin' it with you beside me."

Castiel searches the human's eyes, and even without his angelic ability to read his charge's thoughts, the fierce honesty he sees in Dean's eyes makes his throat tighten. The hunter would not lie to him.

The door to the room opens, and Sam appears, hefting his laptop and two Styrofoam cups of coffee.

"About time," Dean grumbles, breaking the moment with a show or griping, and getting up to snatch one of the cups from his brother. Once Sam is seated, sparing Dean a little brother's annoyed look, he turns to Castiel.

"Cas, hey," he grins, "Welcome back."

"Thank you," he replies gravely.

Sam, oblivious to their previous conversation, opens a ragged folder he's deposited on the bedside table and opens it excitedly, "I've been doing some more research on the last horseman...and the lore surrounding the rings. There might be a way to track down this last one using the other three rings. It's dangerous though."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Yeah, 'cause usually our jobs are nice and cushy."

"_Anyway_," Sam sighs dramatically, "It's doable. We've got three horsemen in the bag already. One more to go." He turns to Castiel, "What do you think Cas?"

He no longer has the power to travel any distance at will, or heal himself, or bend time. He is no longer the invincible warrior, the powerful angel of The Lord. He does not have the backing of heaven, or the assurance of his brothers' protection in battle. They have abandoned him. He can be injured and bleed and suffer and die.

"Cas?"

Dean catches Sam's eye, shakes his head, and Sam looks questioningly back at his brother.

He has only the strength which this limited mortal body allows. He is hunted, a rebel; God Himself has turned his back on him, does not answer his prayers. The Winchester brothers are his only family.

But they have promised not to abandon him, not to leave him to bleed, suffer, or die alone.

He looks at the two brothers, and feels a deep seated resolve settle into his being.

He is not alone.

...

The patient who came in with his two brothers, who was pronounced brain dead only days ago, and who has somehow found his way back to the world of the living is given a sedative that night, a careful rotation of nurses checking in on him periodically.

But no one seems to see the small child that appears at the patient's bedside not long after his eyes fall shut at last, and sits with him through the first long, lonely night of humanity, small fingers, carding back and forth through the dark hair of the sleeping man, until the first rays of morning filter in.

.

_That's all folks! I had A LOT of trouble ending this one, so I hope the way it turned out is at least somewhat satisfying. I just had to end with a human Castiel, because I feel like the show never really exploited that plot twist for all it was really worth. I mean, seriously! There's some meaty stuff there!_

_If my muse, and real-life demands oblige, I may try to continue this kind of AU set-up I've got going...maybe let the brothers and Human!Cas try to take on Death. I liked the canon version of Death, and would have loved a whole episode devoted to exploring death. I mean come on! ALL of the characters have died now at one time or another. Doesn't death deserve a little more screen time?_

_Anywho, once again, my sincere thanks for reading. Also a BIG thanks to everyone who reviewed. My muse is seriously well-fed with your lovely comments. I hope you enjoyed this one!  
_

_~Amazon_


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